


The Chains We Break

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Brought To Justice [9]
Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Complicated Relationships, Dirty Talk, Gender Identity, Identity, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Intersex Loki (Marvel), Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Light Bondage, M/M, Magical Realism, Marvel Jotunn Culture, Multiple Selves, Multiverse, Plot, Politics, Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Shapeshifting, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-14 05:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14763915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Book 2 of BTJ, set directly after The Bastard Children of Loki of Asgard.Now severed officially from Asgard, Loki is ready to unpack the tangled threads of the identity left to him - he is still connected to the Jötunheimr, and he is finally ready to explore what that link truly means. Or-- He will be. Soon. Just give him a few more weeks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be added as the fic goes on, including character tags.

**July 28 th, 2012  
6:04AM**

Steve wakes up cold. He shifts slightly in his bed, feeling the cool expanse beneath him, and then he grins, just slightly. Steve’s cheek is laid on the flat, hard pillow of Loki’s chest, and his arm is slung loosely around the other man’s hips. Loki is awake, his elbow resting gently on Steve’s shoulder as he scrolls through a page on his phone.

Wikipedia.

“Where’s the Great Bitter Lake, then?” Steve asks, lowly.

“Egypt,” Loki answers. “It has a very high salinity, apparently.” Steve laughs, pressing his nose against Loki’s pectorals, and then he leans back, sitting up in bed. Loki’s expression is quietly pensive as he draws his fingers over the sheet beneath him. “This was… Pleasant. It’s been a long time since I shared a bed with someone.”

“We shared a bed a while back,” Steve points out.

“That was different. You were drunk.” Loki looks out toward the window, slowly moving off the bed and moving toward the window. Completely naked, he rests his hands on the window sill, and he looks outside – Steve doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s annoyed. “So many buildings in this city,” he says mildly. “One can look from one to a view in another.”

“I don’t mind you fixing up the apartment,” Steve says. “You can— You can do whatever you want with it.” Loki’s hair hangs thickly around his shoulders, and Steve can see the smooth line of his spine down to the curve of his backside, the expanse of his thighs, his calves…

“You have so little,” Loki murmurs. “So much of what you own has been lost to you – I should hate to take this away.” Steve hesitates for a second, looking around the grey walls of the apartment, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He thinks of the houses they’d stayed in while they were travelling around the Fon System – some were positively palatial, with white-washed walls and huge windows, but one of them… There was a cottage overlooking the sea, on some warm planet with grass that _sang_ as you walked over it. Small, and homey.

“This isn’t mine,” Steve says quietly. “SHIELD bought this thing, put the deed in my name… But look at it.” Loki turns, looking at the walls, the drab furniture.

“It’s horrid,” he says. Steve laughs.

“ _Yeah_ , but… Loki, I haven’t really lived here. I don’t— Loki, I was in the army for _years_. We’d go from one camp to another, we’d be on the move. I don’t know how to decorate an apartment. This is what SHIELD gave me, and I’ve just left it. Whatever you wanted to do to it, I think I’d like it.” Loki crosses his arms loosely over his chest, leaning back against the window. He looks comfortable like this – confident, settled in his skin. It occurs to Steve that he’s never really seen him like this, naked outside of the bathwater: he can see Loki’s cock, small and soft where it comes away from his mons pubis. “What’re you thinking?”

“We’ve rushed this,” Loki murmurs, drawing his hand through his hair. “I can hardly… Cohabitation is a difficult thing. We’ve known each other for scarcely three months.”

“You’re three thousand years old, and I’m around ninety,” Steve points out, keeping his tone casual. “Any period we know each other for is gonna be pretty short in the scheme of our lives.” Loki’s lips quirk into a smile. “Besides, it’s… It’s expensive, here in New York. I own this place, I just pay the bills with my salary, and I have savings. You…”

“Are up shit creek without a credit score?” Steve sniggers.

“Who taught you that one?” Loki smiles wanly.

“Logan.” Steve runs his hand through his hair, and he pulls himself out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers, and he steps a little closer. He thinks of Loki with his arms wrapped around Steve’s body, thinks of Loki’s forehead pressed tight against his own—

“The forehead thing. What does that mean?” Steve asks. Loki presses his lips loosely together, and he leans closer, his fingers sliding cool and pleasant over Steve’s hips, resting against the bone. “Hel, Jormungandr, and Fenrisúlfr—” Loki’s lips quirk into a smile at Steve’s _flawless_ pronunciation. “They all did it. When we met, and then when we left… I kinda got the feeling it’s significant.”

“It’s significant,” Loki confirms. “There are many little gestures you Midgardians take for granted, as if they are universal. Shaking hands, for example. Bowing – bowing is an act of _aggression_ , for Nakomians, for it signals you are about to butt heads. To press your lips to someone else’s is a great taboo for some cultures – even to hug can be deeply unsettling for cultures that frown upon such physical contact. Asgard has its own gestures. Most are similar to those of Midgard, but many are lost in the annals of your history.”

Loki leans closer, and he very carefully touches his forehead to Steve’s own. Their noses are brushing against each other, and like this Steve is looking right into the shining depths of Loki’s blue eyes. “Consider,” he murmurs under his breath. “Like this, our faces are touching… My left hand is against your neck, where I can feel the pump of the blood in your veins. We are nose to nose, mouth to mouth… We can see nothing but one another. If I wished to kill you, right now, I could. In this position, your belly is vulnerable, your chest… And you wouldn’t see the knife until it was plunged within you. This, for a warrior people, this is _trust_. At its core.”

“I’ve seen you and Thor do this,” Steve murmurs. “He always trusts you.” Steve can barely see the curve of Loki’s smile, only really seeing it in the periphery of his vision. “But it’s not just… _Anybody_ , right?”

“This is for family,” Loki murmurs. “Family, the closest shield-mates, or spouses.” Steve feels his breath catch in his throat. “I’m sorry, the three of them _assumed_ … And I didn’t want it to appear to the Asgardians as if I were rejecting you when my children were embracing you.” Loki shifts away slightly, but his left hand lingers cool and gentle on the side of Steve’s neck, his thumb drawing over the skin.

“That why you’re scared of rushing things? ‘Cause of what the Asgardians think?” Loki closes his eyes, and he looks conflicted for a long moment, his expression pinched and tight. Steve can see his uncertainty, his _reluctance_. “I don’t mind if you’re uncomfortable with living together, if you don’t feel you can handle living with me. We can find you somewhere. But if it’s just… You’re a little worried other people _think_ we’re rushing it—”

“That’s not it,” Loki mutters. “Do you know how long I knew Sigyn for, before we married?” Steve hesitates, and then he shakes his head. “Three days. No Asgardian would consider this relationship rushed. The Æsir… Their emotions run deeply, with turbulence. The beats of their hearts may be slow, but the feeling therein is positively hyperbolic.”

“What about Jötnar?” Loki’s lips thin into a line.

“I’ll decorate the apartment,” Loki says. “I’ll make this… Bigger. The furniture… Are you attached to it?”

“Nah,” Steve mutters. “It came pre-furnished.”

“No photographs,” Loki murmurs.

“I never figured I’d be here long,” Steve admits. “And like I said, I don’t… I lived with my mom ‘til she died, and then I lived with Bucky. I never, uh. I draw sketches, but I’ve never been a big guy for material stuff. Brooklyn in the 40s, you know, it’s not like there was space to keep a lot of stuff.” Loki looks at Steve’s face, studying the lines of his features, and he sighs. “Most of the places we visited didn’t have much. And your bedroom doesn’t have too much in it. Just books.”

“I didn’t expect to be there long,” Loki replies, mildly.

“Liar,” Steve murmurs.

“I didn’t want anyone rifling through my possessions. I don’t keep valuables on display.”

“On display? It was _your_ room.”

“A room any of you could enter at any time,” Loki points out. “A room any of you could choose to search, even destroy the contents of, if it suited you.” Steve frowns, his brow furrowing.

“We’d never— None of us would do that.” Loki shrugs his shoulders.

“I know that now.” He slides past Steve, and then he slowly slides back onto the bed, spreading his thighs open so far that Steve can’t help the way his own eyebrows raise, _staring_. Very deliberately, Loki drags his tongue from the base of his fingers to the tip, and then he slides them between his legs. Steve stares as he lets them play over the lips of his entrance, slowly. “I believe,” Loki murmurs, very quietly, “I was promised several hours of ravishment.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Steve says. “I think _you_ were meant to ravish _me_.” Nonetheless, he takes a slow step forward, sliding down onto the edge of the bed, and he drags his mouth slowly over the length of Loki’s muscled thigh, feeling the way he _shivers_ under the touch. Loki’s hand draws back, and Steve looks at Loki’s pussy, properly, now. “You have testes, right?”

“They’re internal.” Loki’s cock, flaccid, is maybe two inches long, and it’s just like a clitoris, but bigger. There’s no hood on it, and no foreskin – Loki’s cock is slightly tapered at the end, and Steve reaches out, dragging his thumb over it. Loki hisses, softly, and Steve drags his thumb – wet with spit – down the side of Loki’s inner lip, which is wrinkled and tinged blue in the light. And the _flesh_ around Loki’s pussy is… Fat. Steve reaches out, taking hold of Loki’s outer lips with his finger and thumb, feeling it soft and yielding as he _tugs_ , gently. A soft sound comes from between Loki’s parted lips, and Steve looks up at him to see his face.

Loki looks _hungry_. It’s a feral sort of hunger, slightly inhuman around the edges – the planes of Loki’s face seem harder than usual, his teeth a little sharper, and his eyes are glittering with something _new…_ Steve leans, and he drags his tongue from Loki’s open entrance to the tip of his cock, and the expression shatters, replaced by something desperate as Loki’s back arches, his head tipping back. People keep expecting Steve to be shy about sex, as if he’s never had it before, as if sex before marriage didn’t _exist_ in the 40s, but sex with Loki is something else entirely. Loki doesn’t expect anything except for Steve to _touch_ him.

“Tell me about your first time,” Steve murmurs against Loki’s thigh, feeling him stiffen. “No, not that. The first time you _really_ had sex.” Loki stares down at him, uncomprehending, and Steve smiles, pressing a kiss to the crease where Loki’s thigh meets his loins. “For me?”

“For you,” Loki repeats, softly.

“You don’t have to,” Steve murmurs, stroking a comforting circle against the lower part of Loki’s left thigh. “Something else, maybe—”

“No,” Loki says. “No, it isn’t traumatic. I just don’t think of it often. I’ll tell you.” Distantly, Loki smiles. “The questions you ask… I don’t think you appreciate how uncommon they are.”

“Uncommon questions,” Steve says, shrugging his shoulders. “What else do you ask an uncommon man?” Something shifts in Loki’s face at that, a slight pinch coming to his lips, as if he’s been given a particularly difficult puzzle and he can’t quite work out how to begin. “Loki? You okay?”

“Yes,” Loki says. “It was… In Alfheim.”

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **-** **ⓁⓈ** **-** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**July 28 th, 2012  
6:21AM**

Steven’s breath is hot where it ghosts over Loki’s cunt, and it makes Loki feel _quake_. Steven’s hands are sliding smooth and strong over the flesh of his thighs, and then he dips, lapping his tongue at the very entrance of Loki’s quim, playing over the soft skin around the muscle there. “We were in Alfheim for some… For some reason. I don’t recall precisely – I want to say we were hunting a gvorne, which is a sort of oversized hog uncommon in the Nine Realms, but I feel I may be mixing memories. Everyone was very drunk bar myself, and I was of poor mood.”

“How come?” Steven asks, and then he flicks his tongue over Loki’s cock, making him gasp and jolt on the bed.

“I had been quarrelling with Thor, for that very week I had humiliated him on the proving ground. He had insisted if we fought a duel, and he won, that I would have to— That I should set my short blades aside and take up something else.” Steven’s eyes glance up to Loki, confusion showing in the furrow of his brow. “If you— Perhaps we should cease, if you wish me to tell this story.”

“It is a little weird,” Steven admits, and he leans forward, resting his chin hotly against Loki’s belly. The position serves to set Loki’s cock against the hot flesh of Steve’s neck, and Loki twitches. Steven’s expression is _entirely_ innocent, and his hands remain spread over Loki’s thighs, his own legs awkwardly crouched beneath him. “Why’d he do that? Want you to stop using daggers?”

“He said people would mock me so if I used something else. He wasn’t wrong. It ailed him, to see me so disliked by the peoples around us, particularly as a contingent had come from Vanaheim that week – Asgard conquered Vanaheim some years before Thor’s birth, and they have long-since been a vassal state beneath the Asgardian throne. Vanir warriors are strong and honour-bound, even more so than the Aesir. Many times I had been accosted by a fellow who said it was unmanly for me to carry such petty knives upon my person.”

“What did you do?”

“Mostly made an example of them. And then three of them took it upon themselves to, alongside three of our own Einherjar, teach me precisely what should happen to woman warriors.” Steven sits back, his serious expression rather contrasting with the obscene splash of wetness against his throat, and Loki reaches out, wiping it away with some of Steven’s ugly sheets. “Don’t _look_ like that. They underestimated me. I killed the three Einherjar, and the three Vanir, I unmanned.”

“Unmanned,” Steven repeats. Loki keeps his gaze, smiling distantly. After a second, it clicks. “ _Oh_.”

“Quite,” Loki murmurs. “Such sexual violence is outlawed, anyway, so they were to be executed as a matter of course – particularly when such attacks were directed toward a prince of the royal court.”

“How long ago after Svaðilfari was it?” Steven asks, and Loki shakes his head.

“Nearly a century. I didn’t tell you about Svaðilfari so that you could paint of me an image of a wilting flower,” Loki says, his tone almost chiding, and Steven comes closer, his hands slipping either side of Loki’s chest, coming closer. Their mouths are nearly touching, and Loki can feel the weight of Steven against him, and Loki draws his hand through the other man’s hair.

“It’s just— _Shitty_.”

“You never heard of a boy being so assaulted, to punish him or correct him?” Steve sighs, pressing his face against Loki’s first sternum.

“Too many times,” he murmurs. Loki strokes slow, rhythmic lines down the muscular plane of Steve’s back, feeling the shape of his shoulders and the lines of his ribs, his spine. “So Thor thought changing to a sword would make people, what, not want to hurt you anymore?”

“Something like that. I was taught to fight by my mother, who was taught to fight in the way of the Valkyries – a near-legendary caste of female warriors, all of whom were destroyed before we were born. Thor _adored_ the tales of the Valkyries, and would listen raptly if I ever told them, but… I was young, and boyish. No beard on my pale cheeks, and compared to most Æsir and Vanir, with how pale I was, unfreckled, but with dark hair, I was positively exotic.”

“Like Snow White,” Steven agrees, the sound muffled against Loki’s chest, and when Loki playfully swats his backside in retort, Steven laughs.

“He initially attempted to phrase it as an order. Stormed into the training ground as I sparred with Hogun and commanded me to set my daggers down to pick up a spear instead.”

“What did you do?”

“I threw a dagger at him, and it drove itself into his shoulder.” He remembers it well, the way Thor had cried out in pain, his hand immediately going to the dagger to try to pry it out, the _anger_ that had shown in his face… “Then I refused to heal him. Insisted that if he wished me to dispense with my daggers, obviously he should wish I abandon my seiðr as well.” Steve’s flesh is warm and yielding under Loki’s fingers, so much softer than that of the Æsir. “But later, he beseeched me. _Begged_ me to stop fighting like a woman, and to fight like a man instead. I responded that I already fought like a man, for I— I _am_ a man.” _Is he, though?_ For the longest time, gender has been such a petty concern, to be abandoned by the wayside and met up to only upon a whim, but here, on Midgard… He has cast off all connection to Asgard. Why ought he prescribe to their notions of gender, now that he is of elsewhere instead?

“What did he say?” Steven asks softly, and he presses three kisses to Loki’s sternum.

“He changed methods a third time, and elected for a bet, instead. He said that if I beat him in the arena without my daggers, and without my magic, I would have to swear to use a weapon more befitting a prince of Asgard. You must understand, Steven, none of this… We were so young. Both of us so full of pride, and with so little behind us. He was scarcely more than eight hundred years old – I was barely older than seven. We were the equivalent of eighteen and nineteen, perhaps. He only wanted this because he believed I would be safer, and happier.”

“I know,” Steven murmurs, his hands sliding slow from Loki’s thighs to his hips. “Buck would say, sometimes… Nothing that _hurt_ me, not exactly. But sometimes he’d talk about guys like me who got caught by the cops or got killed… Kinda implied it was _their_ fault for getting hurt. That was just how the times were.” It seems to _wound_ Steven to admit it, and Loki traces his spine. “You won, right?”

“Best of three. I won every single time. First, with Fandral’s sword. Then, with Volstagg’s axe. And then, with Hogun’s mace. I was proving my mettle to them as much as to Thor, after all.” Loki sighs, shaking his head. “He had convinced himself it was lack of ability that made me favour daggers over aught else, but I had trained as he had, with Father and with the palace guard. I could use any weapon I chose, with time to practice.”

“Why choose the daggers? Just ‘cause they’re quick?” Loki thinks for a moment, considering the question. Undoubtedly, the daggers are quick and easy to use – easily they can either kill or incapacitate a foe, and he enjoys the flexibility in them, that he can throw them or use them in close quarters. But it is _more_ than that.

“Why use your shield?” He sees the thought on Steve’s face, the consideration.

“It just— It feels natural. _Really_ natural. Like it’s a part of me.” Loki smiles.

“Yes,” he agrees. “That’s precisely it.”

“So he was angry at you, and you were in a tavern on Alfheim?” Loki recalls the point of the tale, and he nods. Steve’s warm weight is a distraction – but a welcome one – from his words.

“The Ljósálfr… Technically, barring the realm of the Dark Elves, Jötunheimr and Midgard itself, all of the Realms swear fealty to Asgard. Even Niflheim, now left without a ruler in Hel’s absence.” And— How shall that work, precisely? No, best not to think of it. “But the Ljósálfr will only permit so much of their own tradition to be lost. They are different indeed to the Asgardians and the Vanir – the Ljósálfr are fiercely in favour of peace, and they will fight viciously indeed to achieve it. Like the Jötnar, they favour poetry and magic more than blood sport, but…” Loki laughs, wryly. “They are permitted this where the Jötnar are not.”

“Why?”

“Because they are beautiful,” Loki says simply. “And the Jötnar are ugly.”

With immediacy, with biting vehemence, Steve says, “That’s not true.” His eyes are dark, his nose twisted – such _fierceness_ in such a young face. Loki feels as if he sees his reflection in Steven Rogers, sometimes.

“I speak from the point of the view of the Æsir,” Loki says diplomatically, his tone beseeching peace. Steven sits back, dragging his fingers over Loki’s calf. He doesn’t look like he believes Loki – but then, why should he? Loki doesn’t believe himself.

“What do they look like? The Ljósálfr?” Loki’s lip twitches – most Americans have a great deal of trouble using the Æsir words shared between Loki and Thor, and cannot wrap their tongues around the foreign lilts and sounds, but Steven takes them into his mouth _easily_ , as if his tongue is something molten, easily changed.

“Like you,” Loki says. “Fair-haired, with blue eyes, light-skinned. The Ljósálfr and the Dökkálfr are each semi-ethereal, full to the brim with magic. When I was young, and I entertained fantasies of not being Aesir, I was convinced I must be a Dökkálf.”

“The Dökkálfr,” Steven repeats. “If the Ljósálfr are Light Elves, they’re Dark Elves, right? You haven’t mentioned them before.” Loki nods. Ever-learning is he. Ever-curious.

“Long ago, Asgard warred with Svartalheim. The world now is but a barren wasteland, every mile of earth turned over as a battleground,” Loki murmurs. “The Dökkálfr are all gone.” Steve takes in an inhalation.

“That’s… I didn’t realise… How many people were there, when he—”

“Millions,” Loki murmurs, and he runs his hand through his hair, sighing. “I’ve been there. Walked its cold, barren ground. He turned their sun in upon itself after the war was over, and now it’s just a black hole with a ring of light around its edge: from there comes the only light left to Svartalheim.”

“That’s horrible,” Steve mutters. “Did they look like the Ljósálfr?” Loki shakes his head.

“No. Dökkálfr were mostly dark-skinned, very dark-skinned. Like Heimdall, but without such rich colouring – it was a colder black, with a different undertone. There was a noble caste among them, however, that was albino, with pale eyebrows and pale hair, and there were a handful of white-skinned Dökkálfr with black hair. There’s an old Ljósálf song about dark-skinned Ljósálfr and light-skinned Dökkálfr, a drinking song… But I’ve never met a dark-skinned Ljósálf that wasn’t of mixed blood. They don’t even tan.” It feels strange, to explain these basic things to an outsider, particularly in the USA – Americans constantly talk about racism, about prejudice… Loki has only ever known it as fact. Inalienable. Unexamined. _Truth_. “But they are beautiful, the Ljósálfr. They have hair like spun gold, and when they _sing_ , when they speak, even… It thrums with untold magic. It is simultaneously of this realm and another. And like the Jötnar, their view of gender is flexible. Although they have a roughly similar concept of binary sex, gender is viewed as something fluid. Men lie with men; women lie with women. And the Ljósálfr, despite their lofty class, they don’t worry about interbreeding. The Æsir frown upon mixed blood, but the Ljósálfr welcome anyone with a song in their hearts.”

“What’s the catch?” Steve asks quietly. Loki arches an eyebrow in question, and Steven murmurs, “Just… Asgard seems like it’s all golden, but you look closer and there’s sexism, homophobia, racism. What’s the catch with Alfheim?”

“The culture is centred much more on money than Asgard. Poverty is a very real concern on Alfheim, unlike on Asgard or in Vanaheim, particularly for young children or elders. And the Ljósálfr hate to fight for sport, but their honour is easily offended. The Ljósálfr, once spurned, hold a grudge for a lifetime. It was a Ljósálf that murdered mine and Sigyn’s children.” He thinks of Narfi on his back in the snow, his blood spattered on the ground, and he thinks of Valí on the ground, skinless in a pool of blood, partway between wolf and Æsir. “Anyway. Everyone was drunk, and I didn’t want to be around any of them, least of all Thor. So I left the tavern they were in, and I went to another. It was… I didn’t realise what it was, initially.”

Steven tilts his head, looking at him curiously.

“It was… A brothel.” Steven’s lips quirk up into an easy grin, and Loki turns his head, shaking his head slowly. “I’d never had… To the Ljósálf, my appearance is beautiful, exotic. It is different. And they delight in bare chins as much as they do in beards. A good half-dozen women flocked about me as I simply tried to drink a glass of wine, and I was young, naïve— I didn’t realise what they were. One of them asked me how many women I thought I could satisfy in one night. I said that I don’t really do that sort of thing.” Steven laughs, putting his hand up over his mouth, and Loki cannot help the smile that comes to his own face at his own youthful foolishness. “But they couldn’t… The Ljósálfr are a very sexually free people. The idea of a young, unmarried gentleman being a virgin was unimaginable for them. So they brought me a man.”

Loki laughs, quietly. “He was older than the women were. Seasoned, with the beginnings of silver in his hair golden hair. They said he would take good care of me, and he just _lifted_ me off the ground, carried me up the stairs… I was a little tipsy at this point, and I was so astonished I couldn’t use my tongue. He was very handsome. Really, I’ve always— I’ve always appreciated older men, but he was otherworldly. He had the bearing of a priest, and the tongue of a diplomat. He knew _immediately_ that I had made an error, that I didn’t realise what I had walked into, and he was very kind about it – he carried me to a private room to hide my embarrassment.”

“What was his name?”

“Yrjö.” Loki thinks of his long, golden hair with its patches of silver, the careful braids of it, the short-cropped beard… “He gave me a massage, and while I was still loose and pliant, he worked me open, left me dripping before he finally slipped inside me. I felt like I would burst, but I learned later he wasn’t _especially_ big. I was merely innocent of sex.”

“Did he make you pay?” Steven asks.

“No, he didn’t _make_ me,” Loki murmurs. “He was quite adamant that he should rather like to enjoy my body whether I paid or not, but I left money for the sake of appearances. Fandral was delighted when he saw me walk out of the brothel the next morning. He was boasting of my virility to everybody he met.”

“That’s the blond guy, right? With the—” Steve waves his hand over his mouth, making a slightly disgusted expression, and Loki chuckles.

“Yes.” Steve hesitates, for a long moment. “You want to know what we are to one another.” Steve nods. “I thought he always… We were loose friends, in my youth. Volstagg and Fandral, even Hogun, all liked me in their own ways, I think, but I saw _them_ as friends of Thor, not of myself. And Fandral especially, I… I always thought he considered me sport. A game. Often he would mount some playful seduction of me, or whisper poetry in my ear, or try to entice me into kissing him. I always thought it was just a joke he enjoyed, flustering me, unsettling me. As time went on, after he married and his wife died, after I had been married once and then again… I trusted him a little more. He was the only one of Thor’s friends to ever think me worth something. I didn’t realise that we might have… I reciprocated his desires, many years ago, but that was many years ago. Before I came to Midgard. Before I met you.”

“He kinda seemed like he still had a flame burning,” Steve murmurs. Loki doesn’t think he imagines the hint of jealousy tainting the younger man’s words, and Loki smiles, reaching out and gently cupping the side of Steve’s cheek.

“In another life, perhaps our flames could burn together,” Loki whispers softly. “But in this life? I am made of ice, and I want for someone like me.” His hand lowers slightly, feeling the steady beat of Steven’s heart beneath his skin – so _fast_ …

“You think I’m like you, huh?” Steven asks, but he doesn’t seem offended in the least. His own hand reaches out, touching against the centre-left of Loki’s chest, and then he frowns, moving his head to the right, downward— Until his hand rests over Loki’s heart.

“I really do,” Loki murmurs. Steven slips forward, drawing Loki into a slow, easy kiss, and Loki feels himself melt into the warm mouth that thrums hot against his own, his tongue sliding against Steven’s, their lips making quiet, wet sounds in the silence of the room. “Ravishment,” Loki reminds him. “Now.”

Steve chuckles, and his fingers slide down, playing over Loki’s cock, and _squeezing_ around it. Loki groans against Steven’s lips, and as Steven’s hand tightens about him, Loki reaches for Steven’s own length, deepening their kiss once more. “I’d love you to,” Steve mumbles as two fingers slip inside him, and Loki grinds down against the heat of his fingers. “You should, uh, you could… Take me. Sometime.”

Heat burns inside Loki’s belly, and he bites down on Steven’s lower lip, tugging at the sensitive flesh. “I should rather enjoy that,” Loki admits. “The benefit of a shapeshifter, of course—” Loki delights in the way Steven _gasps_ and pulls back, staring at Loki’s length as it shifts in his hand, becoming thicker, longer. He mirrors Steven’s own, quite _substantial_ size, and Steven grips tightly at him, feeling the _heft_.

“God, I wish you’d told me this earlier,” Steven mutters. “Is there any limit to what you can turn into?”

“Not really,” Loki murmurs. “I’m a natural shapeshifter.”

“You’re a natural everything,” Steve says, twisting his hand, and Loki hisses. “I’m gonna… Yeah.” Steven reaches for a bottle of lubricant on the table, slicking Loki’s cock and then his two fingers, pressing them between his own legs, slipping them inside himself— Loki bites his lip as he sees Steven _choke_ , his breath hitching in his throat, and scissor his own fingers. His other hand maintains a steady rhythm as it tightens around Loki’s cock, and this—

“How long since you’ve done this?” Loki asks in a whisper.

“Seventy years,” Steve mutters. “Give or take.” He groans as he slides a third finger in, and Loki catches the groan before it finishes, swallowing it into his own throat before leaning down, dragging his teeth over Steve’s neck. He can taste Steve’s sweat, a layer of saline on his skin, and his mind wanders, just for a moment, back to the Great Bitter Lake—

And then Steve is straddling his cock.

“I made it this big for the sake of hyperbole, you know,” Loki murmurs, his hands slipping to Steve’s hips. “You needn’t—” Steve begins to slide himself slowly down, letting Loki’s cock sink slowly inside him, and Loki watches it greedily, watches inch after inch slide into the other man, feels the tight, wet _clench_ of his serum-enhanced muscle… Steve stops around halfway down, breathing heavily, and his hands press against Loki’s belly, where his second ribcage leaves the flesh beneath hard and unyielding. Loki arches his eyebrows. “Giving up so soon?” Sweat beads on Steven’s forehead, his pink lips parted, and there is a heady flush in his cheeks. He looks beautiful like this, absolutely _beautiful_.

Loki feels the instinct deep within his belly to tear the other man to pieces, to bring him to _ruination_. And wouldn’t Steven beg for it? Isn’t that what he wants, so desperately, to have the control wrenched from his strong shoulders and devoured before him? “Cuffs,” he says.

“What?” Loki asks.

“Cuffs. Cuff your hands. Cuff ‘em to the headboard.” Loki digs his fingernails into Steve’s hips, forcing him down another half an inch, and his heart _soars_ at the way Steve’s back arches, his own hard cock pearling white at the head. “ _Now_.”

“You can’t order me to do anything anymore.”

“Sure I can,” Steven replies, breathlessly. “You just get to choose to obey.” Loki feels the wolf snarl within him, the teeth snapping, feels the indignation and _rage_ at some weak little Midgardian daring, _daring_ , to offer him a command. And yet slowly, he reaches his own hands up toward the headboard, and feels his own seiðr _clink_ as two cuffs keep him in place. There’s a rush in his veins, and judging by Steve’s expression, wide-eyed and slightly surprised, he’s feeling precisely the same. “Great.”

“Don’t I get a reward?” Loki asks, breathlessly. Steven hesitates, and then begins to work himself back down, his palms flat against Loki’s belly to give him purchase, and Loki closes his eyes tightly, unable _not_ to drag at the wood of Steve’s headboard, making it creak slightly. Steven’s body is _impossibly_ hot around his own, as tight as a vice, and Loki grunts as a droplet of Steven’s sweat lands against his belly, sliding smooth and hot over his own, dry skin.

“Do you feel this? Like you would with your own—” Loki gives a short thrust of his hips despite the awkwardness of the position, and Steve groans low in his throat, cutting himself off.

“It _is_ my own,” Loki says, lowly. “My magic is an extension of me – I feel everything.” Steve drops himself down in one smooth motion, and Loki chokes on air, feeling the heat _envelope_ him, feels his own cunt empty and _sopping_ , and best of all he feels the greedy clench of Steven’s muscle around the base of his cock.

“Everything?” Steven repeats breathily. “Really?”

“Really, Steven.” Steve doesn’t draw himself up, but instead grinds his hips slowly down, taking up an easy rhythm that keeps Loki inside him the _whole_ time, his inner walls shifting around the length of Loki’s length, and it is _primordial_. Loki could stay right here, with Captain America impaled upon him, from here until the end of time.

“Let’s see what it takes,” Steven whispers. “See if I can’t get you down to _Steve_. Like the first time.”

“Steve,” Loki murmurs. “Already the lines blur in my own head.” Steve laughs, and it makes him tremble and vibrate around Loki, the sensation impossible not to enjoy.

“Do you— Do you like being called Loki?”

“I _am_ Loki,” he replies. Steve tilts his head, evidently not understanding – that is alright. He doesn’t need to. “I’ll call you Steve if you wish.”

“I like Steven,” Steve admits. The red flush is spread over his naked chest and his cheeks alike, his skin _glistening_ in the morning light. “It feels… I don’t know. Having something you call me that nobody else does. It’s like a mark that isn’t a mark. But Steve is good too.”

“Steve,” Loki whispers, pouring his most _sultry_ tone into his voice. “Please… Fuck yourself on me.” Steve’s throat _bobs_ as he swallows, and he slowly works his thighs, drawing himself up until Loki’s head is just _barely_ inside him, and then he slams himself down again, setting up a pace that must be truly punishing on his thighs, but Loki is hardly about to stop him. It’s glorious, to go from cool to _all-encompassing_ heat, and he watches with delight as Steve’s right hand goes to his cock, squeezing the shaft of it, thumbing over the head. “I feel like a toy,” Loki murmurs. “Just a tool for you to use.” Steve groans, his grip faltering around his cock, and Loki chuckles softly. “You like that, hmm?

Steve grinds himself down a little harder, his hand speeding on his cock, and Loki cannot help but grin, show his teeth. “Is this what you’ve desired from the beginning, I wonder? Ever since you saw me on my knees, my head bowed—” Steve’s face _crumples_ , and Loki groans at the erratic tense and relaxation of his muscles, feels the hot spatter of Steve’s spend against his belly and over Steve’s own hand. “So _quick_. Why, _Captain_ , I expected more st— _ungh_ —”

Steve has to lean back to do it, but there are two fingers buried in Loki’s cunt, and Loki bites down hard on his own lip to keep from _yelling_. Loki’s orgasm comes swiftly, and he feels his cock jolt and judder inside the other man, feels Steve’s walls wash with Loki’s spend… Steve drops forward, carefully extricating himself from Loki’s length, and he blankets Loki’s body with his own, settling his face against the crook of Loki’s neck. His body is _damp_ with sweat, and yet Loki finds he rather loves the scent of him like this, salt and the natural musk of his body mingling with the shampoo in his hair.

“Forgetting something?” Loki murmurs against said blond locks, and Steve laughs against his neck – it tickles.

“Take the cuffs off.” Loki’s hands move immediately to the muscle and fat of Steve’s backside, smacking hard against the flesh, and Steve groans, biting at Loki’s neck as punishment. Loki cannot help the way he arches into the heat of the other man’s mouth— And he feels Steve freeze.

Panic blooms inside him. “Apologies, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s okay… Would you, would you want me to? Bite down? Hard?”

“It’s just instinct,” Loki mutters. “Disregard it.”

“Instinct?” Steve repeats, and he leans back slightly, so that he can catch Loki’s eye. “Jötunn instinct?”

“I’m not just Jötunn,” Loki murmurs. “You saw my children. I bore Fenrisúlfr and Jormungandr both – I am a wolf, a snake, both.” He sees the confused tilt of Steve’s head, sees his tongue touch against the back of his teeth as he thinks, as he tries to see things as Loki sees them. It’s… _Profoundly_ flattering. “You don’t have to understand, Steven.”

“I know,” Steve murmurs. “But I want to.” Loki smiles, dropping his head back on the pillow.

He is about to start another sentence when Steve bites down _hard_ on the juncture between Loki’s neck and Loki’s shoulder, and Loki moans at the desperate pain of it, the way Steve’s tongue drags over the blood he has drawn, and _oh no_ —

Steve leans back, hissing in pain, and Loki hurriedly reaches out with his seiðr, soothing the acid sting away from Steve’s lips and tongue. “I forgot,” Loki says, peering into Steve’s mouth to ensure he’s fixed the damage. “My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Steve mutters, laughing. “I didn’t— It’s _acidic_?”

“My saliva is, as well,” Loki admits, softly. “Naturally. But I rather enjoy kissing you. I didn’t think to put a childproof lock on my _blood_.”

“You just _asked_ me to bite you—”

“But I didn’t think you were going to!” Loki reaches up, feeling the marks at his neck – Steve had bitten deeply, bypassing the thick flesh with _ease_ , and he feels the individual squares of the other man’s teeth indented in the wound. Loki holds up his right hand, and he shows it to Steve, shows the bite marks torn against his palm and the back of his hand, where distinctly _inhuman_ teeth had dug right in.

“Who did that?”

“Fenrisúlfr,” Loki murmurs softly. “He was playing in the waters, running amongst the fish. It was nearly nightfall, and Jormungandr and Hel were already inside, but he stubbornly insisted he would not come inside yet. He was the oldest, he said, and he deserved to play for longer in the waves. I went to grasp him by the scruff of the neck, and he _bit_ me.”

“You let it scar?” Steve asks, and he traces the savage mark of raised and dappled, blue-tinged skin under his thumb.

“I was too proud not to,” Loki murmurs. “He threw me nearly twenty feet.” Steve looks to the mark on his shoulder. “I won’t let it scar.” Steve’s relief shows plain on his face, and Loki smiles. “I just wanted to show you it’s… Positive. It isn’t destructive, it isn’t harmful. Wounds are what you make of them.”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs after a second of uncertain hesitation, and he catches Loki in a kiss.

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **-** **ⓁⓈ** **-** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**July 28 th, 2012  
8:42AM**

They eat breakfast at the Jewish deli around the corner from Steve’s apartment building. Loki is pensive as he picks at his organic salad, his eyes far away, and Steve wipes his mouth with his napkin, putting his sandwich aside for a second. “You thinking about the kids?” he asks, softly.

“The kids,” Loki repeats, softly. A slight smile tugs at his distracted lips. “No, no. I’m thinking…” He trails off, and his eyes become even more distant. “Asgard. I keep thinking of Jötunheimr. I was left at the temple, on a hillside, to die, and Odin, he… He took me up when he took the Casket of Ancient Winters, a sacred object to the Jötnar. I was undersized for a Jötunn, heavily undersized… But I can’t have been.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks. His eyes flit down, and he sees the silk white scarf around Loki’s neck, hiding the livid mark Steve had left from blue. It had been _purple_ where his teeth had broken the skin, so obviously made by human teeth, and Steve’s skin feels hot just thinking about it.

“I was shapeshifting before I was out of my swaddling clothes,” Loki murmurs. “My shape likely changed in the _womb,_ this way and that... Jormungandr was like that.” Loki’s hand goes to his own belly, and his eyes come back into focus as he looks at Steve. “I can’t help but feel I’m missing something. A prince of the Jötnar, left to die in the cold, but—”

“Would you have died?” Steve asks. Loki blinks at him. “Well, no, I just mean… You said the Jötnar don’t really wear clothes. You thrive in that cold, right? Would you have died of exposure?”

“I don’t know,” Loki admits. “He said I didn’t know everything. That there were things I was missing.”

“Odin?” Loki nods. His expression is quietly serious as he takes up his juice, taking a small sip of it. It’s brightly green, and it looks and smells _awful_ , but Loki seems to enjoy it.

“He speaks rashly when he feels he’s been backed into a corner,” Loki murmurs. “I’m much the same. He said, before he sent me here—” Loki stops. His lip twists, and he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me,” Steve murmurs. Loki looks deeply conflicted, and finally he shakes his head again.

“Another time,” Loki says softly. “I can be free of Asgard, and my future… But my past remains set in stone. And yet there are things therein which I feel are something of a mystery to me, even now. Tangled strings I have yet to unknot. Before I fell from the Bifrost… I was so desperate to prove myself. So desperate to prove I was not the monster my new skin proved me to be, so _desperate_ not to be a Jötunn. Odin so easily allowed my wife to be murdered for her icy flesh, and I’ve seen Thor tear into thirty Jötnar simply for the crime of _being_ , I was so frightened, and angry…” Loki sighs, setting his elbows against the table, and he sets his hands over his face, hiding his face. “I led their king, Laufey, to the chamber where Odin lay comatose, ostensibly to assassinate him as he slept. I planned to kill him before he could do it, but he— He turned on me, realised what I was doing. And Odin stood from his coma just in time, and ran Laufey through. He _saved_ me, but it was all my fault in the first place.”

Steve watches Loki as he draws his hands slowly away from his face, and he watches the anxiety, the grief, the guilt, bleed slowly away, replaced by thin lips, furrowed brow, deep eyes – Steve knows _that_ look. Determination. “What are you gonna do?”

“Bide my time, for now. And then— I suppose I shall have to visit Jötunheimr. Seek what answers I might find.”

“You’re not scared you might find something you don’t like?” Steve asks, trying to keep his tone diplomatic: Loki laughs without humour.

“Oh, yes,” Loki murmurs. “Absolutely terrified. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that if something scares me, it’s better for everyone that I face it head on.” _Better for everyone_. God. Steve reaches out, and he touches Loki’s hand.

“Better for everyone includes you, right?” Loki doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he interlinks their fingers, and Steve feels himself panic for a moment, because someone will see, someone will spit at them, beat them up—

No one does. It’s 2012, in a Jewish deli in Brooklyn. It’s _fine_.

“It’s just instinct,” Loki murmurs, comfortingly. His eyes are full of understanding, and Steve sighs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just instinct.”

They eat their breakfast in comfortable silence. It feels… Normal. A new version of normal, but a normal nonetheless. Loki going to Jötunheimr, if it’s what he needs, it’s what Steve will push him to do. What must it feel like, to realise you’re what you were raised to hate? What you know your family hate?

Steve squeezes Loki’s hand. Surprised, Loki smiles at him, and Steve feels himself relax – marginally – in his seat.


	2. Chapter 2

**July 28 th, 2012  
03:14PM**

“Carpet or wood-flooring?” Loki asks quietly. Steve frowns, glancing at the bedroom as it stands. Loki had blown the thing up in size, and he had painted the walls a creamy white, setting one wall with a huge window enchantment, just like his bedroom in Avengers Tower. Afternoon light streams in from the city outside, and it’s pleasantly warm, but not _too_ hot. The benefits of living in a pocket dimension being that you control stuff like airflow and temperature, according to Loki.

“Wood,” Steve decides. “Dark wood.” The two of them are stood upon the air, around a foot off the ground that isn’t there: where the floor should be there is an eerie nothingness, expanding black in every direction. Loki sets his hands out, and Steve watches with delighted awe as walnut boards begin to sprout from the bases of the walls, spreading out over the expanse of floor and locking into place against each other. It looks as natural as if there have _always_ been wood boards on this floor instead of down-trodden carpet, and Loki delicately steps down onto the ground, offering Steve his hand so that he can do the same.

It’s easy. Surprisingly easy.

Steve had kind of expected to just leave Loki to it and let him change everything, but he hasn’t. They decorate the bedroom: a wide bed, bookshelves, two armchairs, two standing wardrobes and a chest at the end of the bed. Steve takes a break to piss, and when he comes back Loki has fashioned the bedsheets after the stars and stripes, and Steve has to wrestle him before he’ll make them into something _normal_. Three cushions remain as accents – one that looks like his shield, and two silver stars.

The living room remains small, but with less furniture in it. Loki replaces the old heater with a fireplace, and Steve is surprised by how normal he makes it look. The kitchen triples in size, no longer a hole in the wall, but now a beautiful thing of shining chrome with six burners on the stove, and with a damned _dining_ table in the middle of the floor. The bathroom is as expected – Loki adds a bath. A massive bath. But Steve didn’t expect anything different.

“Offices,” Loki murmurs quietly.

“Offices?”

“We each should have a space of our own, no?”

“You can do that?” Steve asks. “Just… Add two whole rooms?” Loki nods.

Steve’s office has two floors, one raised four feet away from the other. His desk is against the window on the raised platform, with bookshelves on either wall, and the lower part has a wide sofa, two chairs, a coffee table. It’s… Comfortable. Homey. Steve leans against the desk, and he watches as Loki sets frames against the wall. They’re framed in shining silver, accenting against the dark leather of the couch, and he sets up twelve of them. “They’re empty,” Seve murmurs.

“For now,” Loki agrees. “Nick Fury is here.” The doorbell rings a second after he finishes the sentence.

“You’re such a show-off,” Steve mutters, taking the steps down from the platform.

“Oh, build a whole apartment from scratch, he’s not impressed,” Loki says dramatically to some invisible audience. “Notice a six-foot man in black leathers standing outside the door to said apartment, and I’m a savant!” Steve laughs despite himself, and he moves past Loki into the corridor, moving to let Fury in. Behind him, he hears Loki slip into the other room – the one he’d set aside as _his_ office.

“Hey,” Steve says. Fury’s eye slowly moves from Steve to the corridor behind him, and Steve offers him a warm, friendly smile. In the pit of his stomach, there’s a twist of irritation, and he says, “This about the bugs?”

“Bugs?” Fury repeats innocently. Innocence doesn’t suit him. “What bugs?”

“They’re on our kitchen table. Loki took them all apart,” Steve says mildly, and he stands back to let the other man in. It’s funny. On some level, Steve had been aware the apartment was probably bugged, that there was probably some kind of surveillance installed – SHIELD would easily say it was to keep Steve _safe_ as much as to keep an eye on him, and he’s not angry, not really. He leads Fury into the kitchen, and he gestures to the dining table.

Loki had taken them apart piece by piece. They were hidden so well Steve would never have found them – one was in the thermostat (now unnecessary); three were in lamps, set inside the wires; one was in a groove of skirting board in his bedroom. Steve crosses his arms, leaning back against the marble counter against one side of the kitchen, and he doesn’t miss the way Fury is glancing around the room, building a blueprint in his head.

“No one is gonna be able to come in the door without one of us letting them in,” Steve says mildly. “Loki explained the magic, but it’s, uh, kinda above my paygrade. Something about falling between dimensions, where no sun ever shines?”

“Gee, Steve, I’m almost offended,” Fury murmurs. “You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you,” Steve says. “About as much as you trust me.” Fury chuckles, and he moves further into the kitchen, glancing at the windows that don’t make sense, where physics is concerned. There are three of them, and only one in the middle shows New York, a view that looks like it’s been taken from the Statue of Liberty – the one on the left shows some view over Norway, and the third one shows the city of Asgard. It doesn’t feel the same way a video feed does – it’s almost like having three animated photographs.

“No hard feelings?”

“Nah. SHIELD’s doing what they think is necessary. I get that.” Fury slowly sinks onto one of the dining chairs, leaning forward. His hands clasp together, between his knees, and he looks up at Steve, thoughtful. “He broke the connection,” Steve murmurs.

“I heard,” Fury says, slowly. “He did that pretty quick, huh?” Steve shrugs. “Where were you? You weren’t on Earth, I know that.”

“Asgard,” Steve says quietly. “He… He wanted to, uh, legally lose his connection to Asgard. Basically. He went in front of the Council of Gods, and he asked to be discharged from service. That’s the basic explanation.”

“Why?” Fury asks.

“It meant that, um… His three kids were all locked up, because of some prophecy. And it meant the Council had to let them go.” Something changes in Fury’s eye. One of his hands goes up to his face, rubbing over the side of his mouth, and he sighs.

“They’re not coming to Earth, right?” Steve shakes his head. “Damn. How long were they locked up?”

“I’m not sure exactly,” Steve murmurs. “But I got the impression it was around a millennium.” The two of them stay silent for a long few moments, and Steve says quietly, “He’s, uh, he’s not gonna be an Avenger any more. He wants to get a teaching job. But he… He’ll do whatever I do.”

“Captain America’s a package deal now, huh?” Fury asks quietly. The question isn’t just about working for SHIELD, Steve can tell, and he thinks about his answer for a long few moments before he gives it.

“I guess,” he says. “Yeah.”

“You don’t think you’re rushing things?”

“Maybe,” Steve admits. “But I trust him. And I’ll trust him so that you don’t have to.” Fury laughs, softly, bitterly, and Steve knows exactly what that laugh means – _It doesn’t work like that, soldier_. But Fury says nothing. “You want a cup of coffee?” Fury glances up, surprise shining in his eye for just a second before it fades away.

“Sure,” he says, and Steve puts some water onto the stove to heat.

 **\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **-** **ⓁⓈ** **-** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**July 28 th, 2012  
05:31PM**

Loki’s office is a frozen tundra. Steve stands in the doorway, where Loki had said for him to come in, and he stares out over the swirling, frosty winds, the snow, the ice.

And then, the tundra is gone in a blink: Loki’s office is perfectly circular, with several metal platforms making up more floors above him. Bookshelves line every wall, gently curving with them, and the light comes from a skylight some floors above. Suspended from a length of fabric, Loki descends in the middle of it all, looking like a spider on a silken thread where he hangs upside down, his hair hanging around his head in a curtain of black.

“This isn’t an office,” Steve points out. “This is a library.” Loki smiles, and he drops neatly to the tiled floor, gesturing to his left. Two bookshelves give way to an archway of similar wood, and through the arch, up half a dozen steps, is a desk and chair on a raised platform, just like Steve’s. “This based on somewhere?”

“My old office on Koom,” Loki says, glancing up toward the skylight, and when Steve steps closer, looking past the copper grating that makes up the other circular floors and to the segmented glass. It shows a lilac sky, with two crescent moons high above them. “I was very happy there, you know. When I saw Thor seated in the back of my lecture hall, listening with the rest of the students… He sat there amidst the lilac-skinned Koomians, dressed in his leathers, with Mjölnir in his lap, and he started calling out answers to the questions I was asking. This was complex, applied astrophysics – aeronautics… I had written a paper revolutionising the conservation of space fuel on Koom as part of my— the equivalent of a PhD. He’d read it cover to cover. He knew my work very well. But I looked at him, and all I felt was grief. Here he was, to drag me back to Asgard once again. Thor loves Asgard, Steven. For the longest time, he was blind to its faults, and couldn’t conceive of why I was so unhappy there. My unhappiness, in his mind, was a choice I was making.”

Sighing softly, Loki reaches out, drawing his palm over Steve’s cheek. “I get the feeling, at times…” Loki trails off momentarily, his thumb brushing against Steve’s cheek bone. “Your friend James. You were like brothers, weren’t you?”

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs. “I never called him James.” Loki smiles softly. “Bucky could be like that sometimes, yeah. Overprotective. A little insensitive. But he was… He was a good man. Proud, and brave, and always standing beside me when I needed him.” Loki’s smile warms.

“Yes,” he says. “What did Commander Fury say about the listening devices?”

“Well,” Steve murmurs. “He didn’t _apologize_.” Loki laughs.

“I didn’t expect him to.” Sighing, Loki sits back upon the air, carefully crossing his legs over one another. It’s thoughtlessly graceful, casual and easy, and Steve watches him for a long few moments. It’d be easy, to not trust him. It’d be easy to brush Loki off as a horrible guy who’s done horrible things, but Steve… He’s never been able to brush someone off as worthless, beyond saving. No matter what they’ve done. It’s not fair, really. If Loki hadn’t been shoved into his life, Steve, he would have just… What? Stayed isolated? Not kissed anyone for three years?

Maybe.

“You serious before?” Steve asks. “That you’d work for SHIELD, if I do?”

“Of course,” Loki says, his hands in his lap. “Where you go, I’ll go.”

“Why?” Loki blinks. “You said you didn’t like the fighting.”

“I don’t,” Loki murmurs. “But better to fight off a foe than sit back and watch the weak perish. That’s what you stand for, isn’t it?” Steve hesitates, and then he nods his head. “I trust your judgement. More importantly, I trust myself to advise that judgement.” Steve laughs, turning his head to the side.

“God, you are… _So_ annoying.”

“Really? Annoying?”

“ _Really_ annoying, that’s right.” Loki drags his thumb down the length of Steve’s chin, and Steve feels the coldness of his calloused thumb, relaxing under the touch.

“There are worse things to be,” he says mildly. “I’m going to make an application to lecture at NYU.”

“In astrophysics?”

“Probably across a handful of subjects,” Loki murmurs. “I’ll need to translate my diplomas, of course.”

“All fifteen of them?”

“Eighteen.” Steve can’t help the way he laughs, and he takes a step forward, putting his hands on Loki’s hips, leaning in closer so that their noses are together, their lips nearly touching. Loki tilts his head slightly and leans in to kiss him, his tongue flicking over Steve’s lower lip. It tickles.

“Travelling with you, around the Fon System… It was nice. I’d love to do that again some time.” Loki looks uncertain for a few moments, his brows furrowing.

“Be careful what you wish for, Steven. That was little more than a holiday, a vacation, but… Travelling the stars like that is not natural for natives of this planet. It won’t be for several more centuries. I wouldn’t want to risk your health – humans are so fragile compared to most space-faring species.”

“I’m not completely human anymore,” Steve says, and he’s surprised by what a relief it is to say it. He _isn’t_. It’s true. The serum has changed him, made him more than human, and while he isn’t like the mutants, he isn’t like the non-mutants either. Steve’s in the category of _powered people_ , and that’s— That’s not so simple. “I know we’re not the same. But when they made me Captain America… I became more than just Steve Rogers.”

“I know,” Loki murmurs. There’s an expression of complete peace spreading across his features – peace, and amusement. “I’ve known that from the beginning – I’ve just been waiting for you to realise.”

“There anything else you’re waiting for me to figure out?” Steve asks, almost terrified of the answer. Loki’s smile becomes private, and he turns his gaze down to Steve’s shirt collar, reaching out to adjust the set of it against his neck, smoothing away some imaginary lint or dirt.

“It isn’t a matter of waiting, exactly. When there is a gap between two individuals, as there is between us – in experience, in age… One must skirt the line between supporting the other’s growth, and stifling it by attempting to wrest control for yourself, or by offering too much advice. One’s grip upon another’s choices can never be too strong. This knowledge of one’s role is the strength of any truly good king, and any truly good lover.” Steve looks at Loki for a long few moments, taking in the plane of his pale features, his shining eyes, his sharp nose, and he thinks of the way Loki had stood in Berlin, with the sceptre in his hands, that horned helmet on his head.

“Do you really believe that?” Loki nods. “Does Thor not… Know? That you believe that?”

“There are things even brothers don’t speak of,” Loki murmurs. “Thor never had any interest in philosophy, or ideology. He never wished to be bogged down by affairs of social politics. Now, I think… His sojourn upon Midgard last year put that in perspective for him. Ditto his alliance with you to capture me.”

“What you said, before, the… The influence on you.”

“Thanos,” Loki says quietly. He doesn’t flinch or shake, this time – the guy’s name is just a name now. But Steve can’t shake the uneasy feeling at the distant horror in Loki’s eyes. “His name is Thanos, and his connection is broken to me now.”

“No, I know, but—What you said about him, about Thanos. That he forced you to invade… Thor still doesn’t really know that. He still thinks you invaded because you _wanted_ to.”

“The truth will out, with time,” Loki says simply. He doesn’t seem too worried. “At the moment, I serve as a catalyst for Thor. He grows in my absence, ever stronger. We do better when we are apart, both of us, and he— I don’t think he ever truly believed that, before. I don’t mean to sound cold, but Thor has always held himself back for me, and I don’t know that he ought have. Similarly, I have held myself back for him. Some day soon, I will tell him everything, but for now…”

“That doesn’t sound cold,” Steve murmurs. “Isn’t it— But aren’t you sacrificing yourself, really? To pretend you’re worse than you are, so that _he_ can grow? How’s that fair?”

“Thor has a destiny to fulfil. I do not,” Loki says simply. “If I prevent him from getting stronger, I will suffer no consequences, but if he is not strong enough to play the role fate has laid out for him, he could die, or worse. There is a limit to what my powers can accomplish, Steven, and I don’t wish to see my brother dead or dying just so that I can appear fine and rosy in his eyes.”

“I don’t get it,” Steve mutters.

“You might never get it,” Loki says sagely. “But there’s nothing wrong with that.” Steve pulls Loki closer, and he feels his gasp of surprise as Steve pulls their foreheads together, holding tightly to the hand that had been ghosting over his chin. It feels weird, to initiate this, especially because Loki’s legs are awkwardly folded on the air in front of his chest, but Loki relaxes into it as if it was the right thing to do, so maybe it was. “Shall we order something in?”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

 **\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **-** **ⓁⓈ** **-** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**July 29 th, 2012  
06:21AM**

“It feels strange,” Wanda murmurs quietly. Her palm is upon the air, and Loki can see the faintest threads of red energy coiling between her fingers as she plays upon the air. “This is built into another dimension?”

“A dimension I created,” Loki confirms, and he pours her a glass of orange juice.

“You’re a good cook,” Pietro murmurs. Loki cannot help the way he smiles as the other man sets his fork aside, his plate completely empty.

“You want another?” Loki asks mildly. Behind him, another jug of omelette mix pours itself onto the hot pan, and the sound of sizzling egg meets the air. Pietro grins. “Don’t look so excited. _That_ is for Steven.” Wanda laughs as Pietro’s face falls, and Loki turns, sprinkling some lardons and chives into the mix.

Stepping neatly from the room and wiping grease from his fingers with a piece of kitchen paper, he slips slowly into the bedroom. Steve is almost awake, sitting up in bed, and Loki murmurs, “Breakfast? I’m making omelettes. The Maximoff twins are here.” Steve chuckles, and he wipes the sleep out of his eye, looking blearily at Loki.

“So much for keeping this on the down-low.”

“They’re very discreet,” Loki murmurs.

“I know,” Steve murmurs. Running a hand through his hair, he blinks himself awake. “I’ll join you in a second.” Nodding, Loki slips out into the corridor and back to the kitchen – just in time to draw his spatula under the omelette to fold it into an omelette, and then he settles it onto a plate at the table, a simple burst of magic keeping it warm. Wanda eats delicately, taking up small bites of the omelette, and Loki pours more of the mix onto the pan, dropping red and yellow peppers into the mix, as well as more chives, some mushrooms.

“What, no bacon?” Pietro asks.

“Testing me on the kashrut, are you?” Loki replies, and he hears Pietro’s soft laughter. When he turns, he sees that Wanda is looking at her brother, a smile tugging at her own lips. Her hair is drawn back from her head with a red headband, and her deep brown skin shines golden in the morning light; Pietro’s skin, a lighter, duskier brown, takes on a similarly warm tint. Loki folds the second omelette over, and he sets it down before Pietro before moving to make one for himself.

“Would you teach me?” Wanda asks. “How to do this?” Loki considers the question as he cracks eggs into a jug, doing it one-handed with an easy, comfortable grace. How many eggs has he broken in the course of his lifetime? Hundreds of thousands, undoubtedly. He recalls the uneasy burst of futures that had sprawled before his swimming vision when he had woken from the sleep the Ancient-Loki had thrown him into, the way countless futures would present themselves to him at once. Thank the Norns that had faded quickly.

“Of course,” Loki says, whisking the eggs together with a dash of milk. “I would be glad to tutor you in anything you wish, Wanda. Always.” He feels Steve’s presence as he enters the room, sliding down into the seat beside Wanda.

“Good morning,” Pietro purrs.

“Morning, Piet,” Steve says mildly. “Wanda.”

“ _Piet_ ,” Pietro repeats, disgusted. “I don’t care for that at all.”

“Young Thomas calls you Piet,” Loki points out, folding some cabbage and grated carrot into his own omelette. There’s a moment of tense silence, and then he hears Pietro exhale with good humour. “How is he?”

“Tommy?” Wanda asks. Loki nods. “He’s fine. Billy’s applying for universities, but Tommy isn’t certain about it. He’s never done well with school, I don’t think.”

“I would have been the same, were school an option,” Pietro points out, and Loki glances at him as he turns his omelette over slightly. Pietro is on his feet, pouring a glass of juice for Steve, and the sight makes Loki’s lip twitch; Steve looks very surprised. “The school system isn’t made for children like him. Even were he an attendee of Xavier’s institution, I feel he would struggle nonetheless.” Turning on his heel, Loki sets his own omelette onto his plate, and he puts the frying pan aside, flicking off the burner upon the stove. “Just because he won’t have a high school diploma doesn’t mean he lacks skills. He understands mathematics at a very high level; he has a very good grasp of biology, physics and chemistry; he is a natural engineer.” Pietro’s hand touches gently against Wanda’s red-clad shoulder, and Wanda nods slowly. She looks worried all the same. “You should join us for dinner on Friday, Loki. I’m sure Tommy would love to meet you.”

“Billy would like to know you better too,” Wanda murmurs, with a small nod of her head, and for a second, she hesitates, glancing at Steve. “Father…”

“It’s okay,” Steve murmurs. “You can invite him and not me.”

“You and Erik Lehnsherr are acquainted?” Loki asks.

“We’ve never met, actually,” Steve says. “But I believe in freedom more than peace. He believes in peace more than freedom.”

“What an eloquent way of putting it,” Pietro murmurs. He doesn’t seem upset, however, and he gently sets his knife and fork down upon his plate. “You ought join us. He won’t argue you any more than he will be.”

“Probably less so,” Wanda murmurs ruefully. “You don’t have to, either of you. I understand that a family dinner would be… Strange. Particularly our family.” Steve looks to Loki, as if asking permission, and Loki thinks for a moment before giving a small inclination of his head.

“I would be honoured,” he murmurs.

“Me too,” Steve says, his tone as genuine as it gets, and Wanda smiles. Pietro wipes his mouth with a napkin, and he leans back in his own seat. It will be curious, Loki thinks, to see he and Lehnsherr side-by-side – he’s seen photographs of _Magneto_ , seen the similarities between the man and his son, but it will be different indeed in the flesh. Steve adds, “It’ll be, uh, interesting to meet your sister. Lorna, right?”

“Lorna,” Pietro confirms. “She has all of Father’s temper and none of his grace.”

“Pietro!” Wanda says, and Pietro lets out a bark of laughter.

“She’ll like you,” Pietro murmurs. “She likes people who have conviction, direction. Both of us have often lacked that quality – it means a lot to see someone so unwavering.” That is almost a compliment. Loki glances from Pietro to Steve, simply to see how Steve will react. Steve furrows his brow as if he’s almost confused, however, and then he gives a small nod of his head. “And Billy will be delighted. An _all-American_ hero at his dinner table, why, it’s his dream.”

“Now now,” Loki murmurs, reaching over and patting Pietro’s hand. “No anti-American sentiment at the breakfast table, no matter how justified.” Pietro and Loki share a look, and then laugh together. Steve gives them a flat look. “Should I bring anything?”

“No,” Wanda says, shaking her head. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll make a dessert of some kind,” Loki says. “Something parve?” Pietro nods his head.

“Parve?” Steve repeats. “What’s that?”

“Kosher laws dictate that one cannot eat meat and dairy in the same sitting,” Pietro murmurs. “If something is _parve_ , it means it is neither meat nor dairy. Eggs are a good example.”

“Do all of you keep kosher?” Steve asks, and Wanda and Pietro shake their heads at the same time. They don’t look alike, not really, but there is something in their twin mannerisms – both of them have royal bearings and natural, easy grace, measured ways of speaking…

“Just William and I,” Pietro says. “And Father, but I think that’s just masochism rather than faith.”

“They’re often the same thing, I find,” Loki murmurs, taking a sip of his water.

“You talking to Xavier recently?” Pietro replies, snidely. Loki’s lips twitch. He isn’t someone who naturally tends to playing games, but chess with Pietro is always a delight, whether they are sat at opposite ends of the chess board or the breakfast table.

“Point taken,” Loki murmurs, and he focuses on eating his omelette.

 **\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **-** **ⓁⓈ** **-** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**July 29 th, 2012  
05:37PM**

Loki sits on the floor of his office, a book open in his lap. The book is slightly cold to the touch, and the paper is made of a carefully dried seaweed that grows on the ocean floor of the Jut Sea, its deep blue colouring bleached by the brightness of the Jötunheimr sun. Now, it is a pale white, and the script upon it is made up of circular patterns that cross over and intersect.

It is simply a throwaway stanza, mentioning the child of a knight of Jötunheimr some four or five thousand years ago, and yet Loki cannot help but be confused by it, cannot help but read over the six simple lines again and again and again.

A child at the edge of the temple, left out in the cold…

“Loki?”

“Oh, you’re back,” Loki murmurs, looking up from the book. Steve stands in the doorway, watching him – he’d been at Avengers Tower for much of the day, and Loki had settled rather comfortably into the solitude of the office. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Are you? You look kinda upset.” Loki looks down at the page, and he reads the stanza aloud, translating it as he goes.

“ _And lo did the child cease its whimpers_  
_For it lay in the lap of the gods,_  
 _Kept cool by their whispering winds._  
 _Upon the hill at the edge of the temple,_  
 _The infant slept its first night soundly,_  
 _For it knew no one would dare disturb its slumber._ ” Steve frowns, looking at Loki with confusion on his face, his lips twisting.

“What happened to the baby?”

“It was the child of a noble person, a knight, many years ago. The child grew up to be the keeper of the libraries – a sort of priest of Jötunheimr.”

“So the kid survived?”

“It’s said so casually,” Loki murmurs. “I only have a handful of Jötunn texts, but this line… It’s written as if... As if there need be no explanation of why an infant might be laid upon the hillside – as if this is a normality, a tradition. Odin said it was my birthright to die, but if—”

“He said _what_?” Steve repeats, and he is so abruptly furious that Loki’s head whips up from the page. Steve’s lips are twisted into a snarl, and he _stares_ at Loki. “Is that what you wouldn’t tell me earlier? That he— He _said_ that to you?”

“He was angry. I was being just as cruel at the time, and I—”

“No!” Steve interrupts, harshly. “No. No, I don’t care what you said to him – I doubt it was as bad as that. We need to— I want to talk. Now.” Slowly, Loki rises to his feet, taking the book to his chest and feeling its comforting cool against his belly – he cannot help the anxiety that makes itself known within him, tugging at his stomach and gut, but Steve shakes his head. “No, no, I’m not— _angry_ at you. I just need to ask… I want to talk about Odin.”

Loki holds the book a little tighter. “Must we?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” Loki considers refusing. But— He finds he doesn’t want to. If Steve wants to ask…

“Alright. Come, to the living room. We’ll sit beside the fire.”


	3. Chapter 3

**July 29 th, 2012  
06:03PM**

Loki is taking his time. Steve doesn’t want to rush him, doesn’t want to back him into a corner, but he can see Loki’s trembling hands as they set the cast iron pot over the fire, laying it on the old-fashioned spit. Then, he sinks very slowly into an armchair, and looks at Steve uncertainly, as if he isn’t sure what Steve is going to say.

Steve isn’t sure either.

“Can you—” He’s aware of how harsh his tone is, how heavy his breathing is, and he takes a second to inhale, pressing his palm hard against his mouth. “Could you show me? The conversation that led to Odin saying that? I don’t know if that’s overstepping a boundary or not, I don’t know… If it is, you can say.”

“It isn’t overstepping a boundary,” Loki murmurs. “I don’t mind sharing memories with you. But Steven, I can’t… I don’t understand—”

“Show me,” Steve says quietly. Loki reaches out, his fingers brushing against Steve’s temple, and Steve _feels_ the memory wash over him, just like it had when Loki showed him the Grandmaster a few months ago.

_You are dizzy, and exhausted. It had taken great energy indeed not to panic at the gag Thor had laid over your mouth, and although your tingling lips are now free, chains clink heavily about your neck and your wrists, but you hold your head high, and you move with composure. You still feel **Him** like a purple haze at the edges of your mind, and you try to focus your expression onto Odin instead, focus on this monster instead of the other._

_Your heart is pounding. Here, you are ready for death._

_“Loki,” Mother says – but she is not your mother, is she?_

_“Hello, Mother,” you say coldly. She must learn not to love you. She must be free of you, for once and for all. “Have I made you proud?” She recoils as if stung, looking at you with horror shining in her eyes, and you feel your twisted heart shatter._

_“Please, don’t make this worse.” You suppress the violent urge to laugh, embittered at your situation and hers alike._

_“Define worse,” you say._

_“Enough! I will speak to the prisoner alone!” Odin declares, and your gaze slides to the old man upon his throne. You are overwhelmed by the sickening hatred within you, heating your newly cold blood and driving you near-feral with rage, and you suppress the urge to spit upon the ground. No – he already thinks you a savage. Best not to prove him right._

_“The prisoner?” you repeat, amusedly. “And yet, the last time we had one of these charming little tête-a-têtes, you were calling me your son. How the times change!” Odin looks at you with such disgust shining in his single eye – had he always looked at you like that? Have you simply been blind to it, all these years? You, the savage, the monster, the Frost Giant._

_“You killed countless Midgardians,” Odin says. “What have you to say for yourself?”_

_“You killed my wife,” you reply smoothly. “She was worth a million.” It’s even true. Anything to distract the man from the purple threads dug through Loki’s mind, anything to keep him distracted and emotional. Odin’s old lips draw back, displaying his teeth._

_“Your wife,” he repeats, “was nothing more—”_

_“Than the same species as me!” You nearly scream, and you surge in your chains, but two Einherjar hold you back. “You let some paltry guards murder all that was dear to me, had my children fettered to the nine stars, and why!? So that I wouldn’t discover that which you hid from me. My birthright.”_

_“Your birthright,” Odin says damningly, “was to die.”_

_“I wish you’d let me.” Odin stares at him. He doesn’t recoil, but Loki sees the momentary slackening of his features – that has hurt him. Good. “I tried the first time to end this paltry little affair, but I yet lived. I suggest you swing the sword soon, Father, lest I live still.”_

_“Your mother petitioned that you be imprisoned,” Odin says lowly. “Not executed.”_

_“She is not my mother,” you whisper. “And I would rather die that spend one more day under the gaze of your ugly eye, caged or not.”_

_“No!” Thor yells, rushing into the room, and you feel your eyes clench tightly closed._

_“Get out!” you snap, half-desperately. “This is no place for a child playing king—”_

_“You can’t kill him!”_

_“And what is your suggestion, my son?” Odin says, archly. The last two words strike you like a dagger, and you glance to the sword of the Einherjar closest to you, wondering if you can slit your own throat even with your seiðr bound, but the Einherjar notices your wandering gaze and shoves you to your knees_.

“That’s enough, I think,” Loki says quietly. He is looking down at the floor instead of making eye contact with Steve, and Steve can see the _shame_ on his face, the shame and the humiliation, the desperation— Steve grabs at Loki’s hand, holding it tightly.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s not— Christ, Loki.”

“I didn’t recall, before I agreed… I was thinking of the conversation, not my train of thought at the time. I oughtn’t have—”

“Loki,” Steve whispers. He takes Loki’s hand, and he presses it against his heart, where it is beating a little faster than he would like in his chest. God, it’s never easy. “It’s… I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at _him_. He shouldn’t have said that to you. He was— Would he have done it?”

“Executed me?” Loki asks, breathlessly. His fingers press at the muscle of Steve’s chest through the fabric of his shirt, and he swallows, hard. “I don’t think so. He was eager for any excuse not to, despite his anger in the moment. He’d never have entertained Thor so rudely interrupting court proceedings otherwise. Steven, he… It’s very complicated.”

“He killed your wife,” Steve says helplessly.

“No, he didn’t,” Loki whispers. “An Einherjar killed my wife. He saw a Jötunn in Jötunheimr, angry and drawing her blade, and he killed her. He didn’t know she was my _wife_ – he couldn’t possibly have conceived of the idea that I, a prince of Asgard, would lie with a creature he thought was a monster. And I ripped his heart from his chest as it still beat as punishment.” Loki laughs, bitterly. “And what did that accomplish? Two more children left without a father, who grew up knowing the Asgardian prince killed their father for defeating a beast.” He turns his face away, dragging his hand away from Steve’s chest, and he wipes at his left eye, wiping away a tear that threatens to well up there. “Forgiveness does not come naturally to me. I am… Angry, and bitter, and I feel ever as if I am made of shattered edges. But do not tell me I should not forgive Odin, because I cannot do anything else.”

Loki drops to his knees on the rug before the fire, and he takes the pot off the flames, stirring the dark contents before setting it back. The scent of bitter chocolate is beginning to permeate the room, rising easily on the warm air. “Odin allowed my children to be taken from me, and he fettered them across the Nine Realms. Odin sent the Einherjar to my marriage home, without warning. Odin, afterwards, said that it was my fault for choosing such a creature as my bride. But I can’t—”

Loki stops for a long, long moment. “I’m so tired, Steven. I cannot bear to spend another day despising the man that raised me as his son. I cannot stand the rage inside me, ever snarling and snapping, ever forcing me from one extreme to another. I feel it shall consume me. And what will it change? Angrboða will still be dead. My children were lost to me for a thousand years, but now they are free. Hating Odin will not retroactively release them sooner.”  

“Forgiveness,” Steve says softly. “It’s about… Loki, forgiveness is one thing. Not holding a grudge. But someone has to want to _change_ to be forgiven.” And Odin hasn’t shown that he wants to change. Hell, didn’t he _just_ try to refuse Loki, when he tried to free Hel, Jormungandr and Fenrisúlfr?

“And how can he change, with me digging into him at every moment?” Loki asks, his tone just as soft as Steve’s, his voice _pleading_. “How can he change, when I attack him every time he tries? You said, when I first tried to kiss you, that I couldn’t consent, and I didn’t understand what you meant. And I understand now, but that concept isn’t universal. No one is born with that understanding. And no one is born knowing how to… How to love. How to communicate one’s feelings. How to forgive. I am learning. So is he.” Carefully, Steve drops down onto the rug beside Loki. He feels the soft fur beneath him, and he puts his hands very gently on the sides of Loki’s neck, his thumbs touching the edges of his jaw.

“I don’t want to see this guy hurt you any more than he has.”

“I know,” Loki murmurs. “But he’s— He’s my father, Steve. It doesn’t matter how many times I deny it, he… He’s my father. And I, stupidly or not… I believe he loves me. I think he’s stupid, and foolish, and _cruel_ , but he loves me. And I don’t think I could forgive _myself_ if I cut off all bond to him forever, and he…” Loki closes his eyes, and his hands touch over Steve’s own. “Even the Asgardians that eat of Iðunn’s fruit are not immortal, Steven. Me aside, all of us will die of old age in the end. And Odin’s time is fading.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, softly. “You aside? What, you’ll live longer because you’re Jötunn?”

“Worry not about it,” Loki says, but his tone is a little too hurried.

“No, tell me. What does that mean?” Loki sighs.

“The way I use magic… It does more than offer me energy to perform acts of seiðr work, or to shapeshift. It is energy, in its purest, basest form, and it flows through me. It… It is very likely that I will far exceed the lifespan expected of me. That I will live for hundreds of thousands of years, if it comes to that.” Steve stares at him, his mouth open. Steve worries, sometimes, about not ageing, about living to be two or three hundred instead of eighty, but… Hundreds of _thousands_ of years— “I try not to think about it. The thought has always rather unnerved me, and… And I was supposed to die within the next few hundred years.”

“Does Thor know?” Steve asks in a whisper.

“Nobody knows,” Loki mutters. “Amora and I… Amora is an enchantress, the greatest enchantress upon Asgard. We’ve discussed it once or twice, for we practice magic in much the same way, but I never felt it would affect me in a practical sense. The more one uses magic, the more it curses you. Nothing comes without a price. Nothing. Living that long…” Loki trails off. “It changes you. The Elders of the Universe, for example – do you have tales of them here, on Midgard?” Steve shakes his head. Loki moves to grasp the pot of hot chocolate from the fire, and he pours two mugs of the thick stuff, passing one of them to Steve.

“All I know is that the guy from before, the Grandmaster… He’s an Elder, right?” Loki nods, and Steve glances down to his mug, bringing it slowly to his mouth and taking a sip.

It’s bitter and slightly spicy, more like a brew of tea than cocoa, and the taste is a little strong for him. Loki drinks heavily from his mug, however, and relaxes marginally as he leans back with the mug in his hands. “The Elders are beings from the beginning few centuries of the universe. They’re so full of magic that they’re _saturated_ with it. They can snap their fingers and start new realities or end them, and each of them has a specialist interest, an _obsession_ , that they cannot live without. You see, the universe cannot let them have such awesome power and let it go unchecked – there needs to be some sort of balance in motion, and thus, each of them has their sphere of influence. I’ve met two. One, he’s called Taneleer Tivan – the Collector. He collects everything – stamps and coins, costumes and weapons, but most of all, he collects living specimens. People. His museum of curiosities on Knowhere is…” Loki trails off, and his lip curls slightly in disgust: he buries it in the mug once more. “And the other. Ord Zyonz. The Gardener.”

“The Gardener?” Loki nods. His disgust gives way to a fond smile, distant.

“He can take the most barren world and make it lush and green and beautiful. His knowledge of botany and horticulture is unparalleled… The thing that unites the Elders is that they are the last surviving members of their species, each of them long-since lost to the annals of time, but none of them is bogged down in melancholy. They are all so awesome in power that they are as gods to us as _we_ are to Midgardians. Every one of them is dangerous – even Ord, who is kindly at heart, struggles to understand the concerns of mere mortals, which is all the Æsir are to them.” Steve reaches out, and he puts his hand on Loki’s knee.

“I’m not gonna say you won’t live that long,” Steve murmurs. “’Cause that seems, uh, a little fatalistic. But, Loki, you can’t just live your life in fear that it’ll last too long.”

“Nor can you,” Loki responds.

“Touché.” Steve bites his lip. “You always seem to know what everyone else is thinking. Doesn’t it get exhausting? Predicting what everyone else is gonna do before they do it?”

“Unbearably so. But I don’t really know how to stop.” _I wish I did_ goes unsaid, but Steve hears it in Loki’s voice nonetheless.

“I hate this,” he admits, and he pours his hot chocolate into Loki’s mug. Loki lets out a soft, sweet laugh, and he sets his own mug aside, shifting closer, his hands either side of Steve’s thighs. “Oh, this, though,” Steve murmurs. “This, I like.”

“Don’t I frighten you?” Loki asks. He whispers the question, as if he’s hoping Steve won’t hear it.

“No,” Steve answers. “No, I don’t think so. Why? Do you want to?”

“No.” Loki glances down at Steve’s chest, his expression quietly pensive. “But I feel there must be some cosmic catch to this arrangement.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks.

“Some people aren’t destined to be happy,” Loki murmurs quietly. “Every time I allow myself to sink into domesticity, it is snapped in one way or another, and I don’t wish to see you hurt because of my folly in permitting this engagement.” Steve feels something dark in his chest _burn_ with heat – a fierce, sudden desire for revenge, but revenge against who? The whole damn universe? Destiny itself?

“You don’t have to worry about destiny anymore,” Steve promises, and he sets his hand on Loki’s chest. Very gently, Loki takes hold of his wrist and slides it to the right of his body, about a quarter of the way down his torso, and this, Steve realises, this is where Loki’s heartbeat is most powerful. “That’s where your heart is, huh?”

“Right there,” Loki confirms softly. “I’m sure it seems so dull compared to yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, no stars, no stripes… My heart must be so plain compared to yours.” Steve shoves him in the chest, and Loki falls back onto the rug, laughing.

“One more word out of that smart mouth—”

“And what? You’ll put a flag in me?”

“I’ll put more than that in you.” Loki smiles, sprawled as he is on the ground, like he belongs there. Loki is looking at him with a quietly interested stare, and Steve thinks about how he’d first felt when he’d seen Loki’s eyes, red-rimmed and heavily affected by the power of the Tesseract. He’d been uncertain, aware that this _god_ was unpredictable, erratic, full of chaos— He doesn’t see that any more. Loki feels predictable, now, working within a set framework no one has ever bothered to unpack. _You ask uncommon questions_ , he’d said, but somebody’s first time… Isn’t that a question that always comes up in the end? Isn’t that a normal curiosity, even for alien cultures? “You ever have questions you want to ask me?” he asks, softly.

“Some,” Loki murmurs. He is slightly cautious, as if he is waiting for the hidden catch in Steve’s question, but there is none. The silence hangs between them for a long few moments until Loki asks, “You seem like a very private man. I know now what I should ask and what I should not.”

“You can ask,” Steve says, _sotto voce_. “You can always— I’ll never get angry at you for asking me a question. And that’s not just about Earth stuff or explaining something. You can ask me about stuff, memories, stuff like that. I can’t show you mine like you can show me yours, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me stuff and you can’t ask me about anything.” Loki lays his hands delicately upon his stomach, looking up at him.

“Tell me about Peggy,” he says softly. It’s like a punch to Steve’s gut, and he doesn’t know what his face looks like, but he sees Loki’s eyes widen, sees him recoil and shift upon the rug. “Sorry,” he mutters, and he takes up his mug of hot chocolate and hurries out of the room – he moves so fast Steve can’t really stop him, and Steve remains kneeling on the rug beside the quietly crackling fire.

 _You said he could ask you anything_ , says the voice that sounds Erskine.

 _But not about her_ , Steve thinks back, helplessly.

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**July 30 th, 2012  
10:36PM**

Loki stands with his hands in his pockets, and he stares up at the statue. He isn’t visible to the security cameras upon the island, and even if he were, it would take some minutes for a ferry to come out to the island to apprehend. In the warm light of the lingering summer evening, the Statue of Liberty shines brightly green above him, and he stares up at the crown, the torch…

“You a tourist now?” Loki turns his head, and he looks at Anthony – Tony. Iron Man hovers some thirty feet above the ground, the propulsors in the boots of the red suit keeping him suspended, and Loki wonders if it was wrong of him to leave him so visible to any that might search for him.

“Mother of Exiles,” Loki says. “Am I a tourist if she welcomes me thus?” Tony is silent. The face of the Iron Man is somewhat disconcerting, lacking as it is in all basic expression, but Loki takes gracefully onto the air to join him. Of course, Iron Man’s expression does not change, but he sees the marginal shift in Stark’s shoulders, the way he leans back marginally.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Loki says. “You?”

“I’m okay,” Stark says. “Fighting crime, you know. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” Loki echoes.

“Jeeze, you look… Real down, Lo. You sure you should be on your own right now?”

“I did something—” Loki stops himself. “Best I give him space for now.” Stupid of him. Truly, _truly_ stupid of him – Loki is a perceptive man, someone who understands that which others are sensitive to, who understands where he ought tread lightly, but he had been so _desperate_ , when Steve had said he could ask questions, and— He’s read about Peggy Carter. Seen her work after Steve Rogers went into the ice, wished to understand _precisely_ what they were to one another, and he had been so _eager_ to know more…

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. You wanna go get ice cream on Ninth?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“So? It’s July. Bet you’re real hot.” The heat is oppressive. As soon as Loki had left the apartment he had felt the way the cloying stick of the New York summer to his skin, and with no breeze to speak of, there is nothing to temper it.

“Alright,” Loki says. Tony leads the way, and he seems to jolt when Loki flies beside him, using his seiðr to control his movement through the air – it is different indeed to Skywalking, which requires a lot more careful calculations of energy usage and gravity. Flight, in contrast, is easy. When they land in the street, Stark’s suit folds neatly away from his body and disappears beneath his wine-coloured shirt and his dark trousers. People look at him, but most of all they look at Loki as he lands neatly upon the ground, with quiet awe and curiosity. Loki ties his hair into a tighter bun.

There are too many flavours of ice cream in the ice cream parlour, so many bright colours and overly alliterative labels that Loki looks at each of them and cannot quite pick one. He is almost grateful for the distraction when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and anxiety bursts in his chest as he realises who the message is from.

**Steve Rogers, 10:53  
You still in New York?**

**Loki, 10:53  
Yes. Getting ice cream with Anthony.**

**Steve Rogers, 10:54  
Good. Just wanted to check you were okay. We don’t have to talk about it when you come home, if you don’t want. I’m sorry for going silent on you – I’m not angry. It just kinda took me by surprise. **

**Steve Rogers, 10:54  
Get me a raspberry ripple?**

**Loki, 10:55  
I am a complete foreigner to this planet, and even I know nobody has taken that flavour of ice cream since 1952.**

**Steve Rogers, 10:55  
Nonetheless.**

**Loki, 10:56  
Roger that, Captain.**

Loki swallows, sliding his phone into his pocket once more, and he says quietly, “May I have a small tub of the Grapefruit Giggle, please?” The young lady behind the counter, a pale-skinned creature with a buzzcut and a ring through the fabric of her lip, gives a short nod of her head, and moves to reach for the ice cream scoop. “And a cornet with two scoops of the Raspberry Ripple,” Loki adds softly. Tony doesn’t permit him to pay for the two portions of ice cream himself (and nor does he ask about the second). Loki momentarily banishes the second ice cream to a pocket dimension somewhere in the vicinity of his own hip, keeping it cold and unmalting until he returns to Steve’s apartment.

“You could get a bigger portion, you know,” Tony murmurs. “Don’t think it’d kill you to put on some weight.”

“The Jötnar don’t build fat deposits like humans do,” Loki says, bringing the small, plastic spoon to the thick, creamy substance and tasting it bitter and sharp upon his tongue. “Besides, I had an omelette for breakfast, and I oughtn’t eat too much dairy in the course of a day.” Tony glances at him, a grin drawing at his features.

“You lactose intolerant? Seriously?”

“There are no farms on Jötunheimr,” Loki says simply. “My people don’t drink milk of any kind. Jötunn young are fed soft meats, even – it would make little sense were I to be entirely able to digest lactose of any kind.” Loki takes a slow bite of his ice cream, and he recalls the fear and uncertainty he had felt when he had borne Fenrisúlfr within him, and his stubborn breast had offered no milk to feed his new child. How it had frightened him at the time, how terrible a mother had felt, and without the means to study the process of lactation, without the means to replicate its process with shapeshifting alone…

“What’s going on in that head of yours, huh?” Tony asks softly, and he gestures for Loki to sit down on a bench with him. Loki does, sliding to seat himself on the cool wood. “I heard from Nat that you, uh, that you got your kids back.”

“Yes,” Loki murmurs. “Fenrisúlfr and Jormungandr are now settled upon a planet I know well in the Gaian System, and Hel is on Fenix IV. I am very glad to see them free.”

“I always wanted to be a dad,” Tony murmurs. “Sometimes, I wake up, and I think about me and Pepper just… Settling down, you know. Hanging up the suit. Having a few kids run around.” Loki watches him for a long few moments as Tony carefully licks a stripe around his chocolate cone, preventing its contents from dripping down over his fingers. “What’s it like?”

“It’s everything,” Loki whispers. “You wake up one morning with this… Tiny little thing in your arms. And you know that your heart is broken already, for half of it lies now outside your chest, its beat faster than your own. When I looked upon my very first son, the feeling was indescribable. The pride I felt, the surprise that so beautiful a creature could have come from _me_ —” He thinks of Sleipnir with his eight clumsy legs, whinnying softly as he tried and failed to stand. Loki recalls himself exhausted and seiðr-weak, gently washing away blood and tissue from his new foal’s soft skin. He recalls the sensation of Sleipnir’s new muscle, his soft skin, even now, remembers even the _scent_ of him—

“I’m sorry,” Tony is saying, and he presses a napkin into Loki’s hand. Loki realises his eyes are watering, and he takes it, dabbing at his eyes. He cries so much, as of late, at scarcely anything – it is weak of him, weak indeed. He ought have more control than this. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Your first son, that’s… That’s uh, Fenris, right?”

“Fenrisúlfr,” Loki says. “No, he was my second. Sleipnir was my first.” Tony’s expression freezes for a second.

“Sleipnir, the uh, the horse?”

“Yes,” Loki answers. “Fenrisúlfr the wolf.”

“Like,” Tony hesitates. “Like, literally? Horse and wolf?”

“Of course.”

“God,” Tony says, turning his head to the side for a second. Loki expects him to laugh, to offer some mocking joke perhaps, but neither comes. Instead, Tony runs a hand through his dark hair, and he shakes his head. “It’s hard, you know, to… To grasp how different you are. The universe must be so weird from your perspective. People, animals. Gods, men. For you, all of them blend together.”

“Yes,” Loki agrees. “Of course, there is a separate category.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“The Hulk.” Loki smiles thinly, and Tony laughs at his joke, leaning back against the bench and looking entirely at home there. The bustle of the city is something Loki can appreciate on many levels, but he is aware that he doesn’t belong here in the way that others do: Tony is one of those easy souls that New York seems to open its very soul to, leaving him at ease regardless of where in the city he lands. Loki takes another small bite of his ice cream, and he thinks of Sleipnir, stabled upon Asgard even now. “Thor doesn’t know, you know.”

“Know what?”

“That Sleipnir is mine. You know the tale, I assume?”

“I’ve heard versions,” Tony admits. “The big stallion, uh, Svad?”

“Svaðilfari.” Loki has no more appetite for his ice cream, and he sets it neatly onto the wooden planks of the bench beside him. “My father kept the truth hidden from everyone in Asgard, except for himself and Heimdall. I was already often mocked and made a game of amidst the Asgardians, and already it was plain to all that I did not belong in Asgard. I wasn’t merely the second son, I was… The people of Asgard hated me. So viscerally, at times, I don’t think… I was only a boy. I didn’t understand it at the time, didn’t understand what I could possibly do to fix how they saw me, couldn’t conceive of how to make them love me. But it wasn’t truly about my choices, or what I wanted to do. I was foreign, visibly so, even if no one suspected my true heritage. It wasn’t my fault, but at the time I felt that surely, _surely_ if I could be less ergi, I might win the people’s favour. You know what it is like, I think, to fall upon the sword of public opinion.” Tony is looking at him with that uncertain, quietly caring look in his eyes, but Loki finds his mind wandering. He thinks of Steve’s words about Thor, thinks of all that Thor does not know…

“My dad wasn’t a great dad,” Tony murmurs. “He… I don’t mean to beat on him. He was friends with Steve, you know, back in the day, but— He wasn’t a good dad. And I always kinda struggled, I guess, with the fact that I hated him and I loved him at the same time. Sound familiar?”

“Yes,” Loki murmurs. “A parent needs to be more than loving to be good, Anthony.” After a moment’s hesitation, he allows his hand to alight on the other man’s shoulder. “You will be an admirable father.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Loki replies. “I’m a patron of parents on many planets. Young mothers especially, but parents in general. I know.” Something small and subtle changes in Tony’s face, the slightest blossom of relief, and Loki smiles. “I must return. Thank you, for the ice cream.”

“Thanks for the talk, big guy,” Tony replies. Loki allows the universe itself to shift around him, feels the dimensional transitway drag him along like a train upon a track, and he settles in the corridor of Steve’s apartment, holding the ice cream in his hand. He knocks quietly on the door of the bedroom, and he steps inside.

Steve is sat on the edge of the bed, a sketchpad in his hands. Loki sees the smooth, artful strokes of the pencil upon the cream of the paper, sees his own hard features wrought in graphite before Steve hurriedly turns the page over and sets the book aside.

Loki hands him the ice cream, and Steve smiles, looking at it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. Loki sinks slowly onto the edge of the bed beside him, and he stares down at his own palms. He allows his scars to slide into place, and he looks at the marks of battle upon his fingers and his hands, at the chunk of flesh missing on one side, at the ghost of Fenrisúlfr’s young jaws on the other side. “You didn’t have to go out, you know.”

“I didn’t want you to feel you had to seek me out, to comfort me,” Loki murmurs. “I wished to give you… Space.”

“You know, growing up in Brooklyn… You never had space.” Steve takes a slow lick of his ice cream, and he adds, “Some of the apartments here had twelve people in ‘em. We grew up near the shtetel – the Jewish ghetto. That’s how I knew Bucky. And you know, the Irish, we were still kinda looked down on a little, although that was fading fast, same as the Italians. But I was so used to being surrounded by people on every damn side, and yet no one was a stranger. I knew the name of every single person that lived in our building. Knew the names of every person in our street, and they knew me. It was close quarters living – Hell when there was stuff going around, I got scarlet fever one year, and a lot of kids my age died – but it wasn’t like it is today. Sometimes I walk through this city, and I’m in a crowd of fifty people, but all it _feels_ like is space. I’m just saying, you know… Sometimes what you’d need in a situation isn’t the same as what I need. You know?”

Loki slides his hand down the expanse of Steve’s back, feeling the tense muscle there. “I’d like to tell you more about her someday,” Steve murmurs. “Introduce you. But right now, I… I don’t think I’m ready to do that.” Loki feels a sick, cool sensation begin at his heart and spread gel-like over the surface of his lungs, his two livers, his entire torso. He feels it tug at the strings of his gut, feels the difficulty at keeping his expression entirely impassive, not allowing it to change at all.

Steve doesn’t seem convinced. “Let’s play a game,” he murmurs. “Truth or dare.”

“That’s a party game.”

“Two’s a party.” Loki feels the bitterness within him well like a storm, and he feels the distant urge to strike Steve, now, to leave upon his heel. The wolf, snapping its jaws within him, _hates_ how Peggy Carter dominates the other man’s mind, although she is old, and Steve is not. Logically, Loki knows this line of thought to be stupid, and cruel, and self-indulgent…

“I don’t want to,” Loki says, his voice a little harsher than he intended, “I don’t see the point.”

“You can ask me questions,” Steve says softly. “Fast-paced, whatever you want.”

“Just not about her.”

“Not about her.”

“I don’t want to.” Steve sighs.

“That’s okay.” _It isn’t okay_ , Loki wants to growl. _It isn’t okay. Why am I so full of hatred all the time? Why can’t I be like you? Kind and warm and easy, never feeling a bad thing about anybody? Why do I have to be the monster? You volunteered for your role – I was forced into mine._

Feelings torrent within him like a storm, and Loki feels his fists clench at his side: he is struck by a sudden desire to drag his teeth down Steve’s neck, take him into pieces until he’d never _dare_ not to answer a question Loki posed him, make him kneel at Loki’s feet—

“I’m going to sleep in my office,” Loki says, a little thickly. Steve pauses for a second, looking him up and down.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Talking won’t help.”

“Talking always helps.”

“No.”

“Okay. You want to fight it out?” Loki freezes. “Conjure a different dimension. We can spar. Tire you out a little.” A vision assails Loki’s mind: Steve Rogers sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily with Loki’s marks all over his chest, his neck, even a scratch bleeding lightly across his cheek. His hands are up, and he bows his head in submission. Loki feels _disgust_.

“I don’t think that will help me either.” Steve sets his jaw, and his eyes darken slightly.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Go on, then. Go sleep in your office.” Loki punches him. The motion is so swift and so sharp that Steve’s head whips to the side with a sickening _crack_ , and Loki feels the head of Steve’s blood upon his knuckles. Quietly, Steve laughs, and he gets to his feet. He widens his stance, throwing the ice cream into the air – Loki vanishes it before it can hit the ground. “Guess we’re fighting after all.”

“You are a child,” Loki whispers.

“No,” he replies. “You’re just angry. Pent-up. If you won’t talk, we’ll work it out a different way.” He speaks in a measured, commanding tone, as if Loki is little more than one of his soldiers, and it _infuriates_ him.

“This is ridiculous,” Loki snaps. “It isn’t any of your business where I—” Steve’s jab goes for his throat, but Loki blocks the move, stepping into Steve’s space and bodily pushing him back to prevent him from building up the momentum for another strike, but Steve responds by hooking one foot under Loki’s ankle and elbowing him in the side as he falls. Loki lands with a huff of air and a sharp _thump_ against the floor.

Immediately, the bedroom fades away around them, replaced by the dust and sawdust of an arena, and Loki stands to his feet.

“No magic,” Steve says.

“No shield,” Loki replies.

“No knives.”

“No talking.” They stand for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, one figure from the ice poised against the other, and Loki feels himself – an ugly part of himself, an _angry_ part of himself – soar to be able to send the arrogant Captain America sprawling in the dust.

It is Steve that strikes first.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of Thorki (not in this universe) and recreational drug use in this chapter.

Loki stands completely stiff with his hands loosely held at his sides, slightly away from his hips; Steve adopts a boxing stance, both fists held before his body. One protects his face, and the other his chest, and he moves on the balls of his feet, ready to move.

When Steve lunges, Loki sidesteps him, using his weight against him and tripping him into the sandy dust, where he sprawls hard on his belly, his chin in the dirt. Before he can move to stand, Loki leaps on top of him, taking one of Steve’s arms and twisting it painfully against the middle of his back, but already Steve is moving beneath him. He has more grace than Loki had given him credit for, and he shifts fluidly from Loki’s weight, sliding forward and then shifting, one foot hitting hard against Loki’s the centre of Loki’s torso, where both rib cages allow for a gap where his diaphragm rests.

Loki flies backwards, unable to grab for purchase, and he flips on the air, landing _hard_ on his crouching knees. Already, he is running forward, and he slides to the ground as Steve swings, taking the other man’s feet out from under him. This time, Steve doesn’t go down, instead landing on his hands and flipping backward, and Loki gets to his feet in time for Steve to try to punch him.

The blow hits Loki hard in the neck, and Loki feels himself choke, but then he brings his knee up hard, angling to the left so that it bruises the inside of Steve’s thigh instead of going any higher, and Steve groans in pain.

“Feeling better yet?” he asks harshly, and Loki elbows him in the nose: he hears a sickening _crack_.

“No talking!” he barks back, and then Steve is sweeping his legs out from under him, using Loki’s light weight to throw him to the ground and bring his own elbow _hard_ between Loki’s shoulder blades. Loki cries out, digging his fingers into the dust, and he tries to snap his hands forward, but Steve grabs them both, pinning him down in the dirt. Steve straddles Loki’s backside, pinning each of wrists in the sand with his ankles placing leverage on the backs of Loki’s calves, and without being able to get leverage, Loki can’t rise.

“I win,” Steve murmurs in his ear, and Loki feels himself sob. It takes him by surprise, and he feels the drip of the other man’s blood against the back of his neck – he oughtn’t have done that, oughtn’t have lashed out so savagely, oughtn’t have been so nasty in the first place— “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m gonna let you go, okay?” Loki nods.

Steve pulls back, sitting back on the ground of the arena, and Loki reaches out, seiðr gathering on his palm. Steve lets him, lets Loki’s magic carefully weave itself through the bone of his nose and click it back into place, the cartilage mending beneath his touch. Loki’s eyes are watering with shame.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“I know,” Steve says in a low voice. His eyes are hard. For the first time in a long time, Loki wishes he was dead. It comes to him all at once, a sudden desire for it all to _end_ – and for once, it is quite attainable. There is no destiny to wait for now. If he chose to end it all, it would truly end, and he could be free. “Listen. And I want you to listen to me _seriously_ , because I’m only going to say this _once_. I care about you, Loki, and I know you care about me, but that doesn’t mean you get a free pass to demand whatever you want from me, and I am trying _damn_ hard to respect the boundaries you refuse to lay out verbally. I’m going off clues and deduction, based off the questions you avoid or don’t answer. And when I clearly say “No, I’m not comfortable with that,” the _least_ you can do is respect it, and not sulk like you’re a _child_.”

The words hit Loki like a flurry of physical blows, much worse than the pain that had dug into his back, and worst of all is the knowledge that Steve is _right_. Hands trembling, Loki drags them through his hair, and he feels his lungs _ache_ with every breath.

Slit his wrists, maybe – but he would easily heal from that, unless he took some sort of anti-coagulant, of which he is running low. Drown himself – but he can sustain himself without oxygen for quite some time… _Incineration_. The very thought of burning in purifying fire, feeling it lick at his flesh, feeling himself _burn_ —

“I don’t like the look in your eyes,” Steve says, very quietly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t think that I should.” The hard look in Steve’s eyes fades slightly, softening into something else, and it is with that that Loki realises his voice had cracked in the middle. Guilt assuages him anew, washing through him like a mighty wave, and he shakes his head as Steve moves closer, but Steve ignores him. His hands touch Loki’s shoulders, holding him fast, and Loki heaves in a gasping, ugly breath.

“No, I’ve seen that look before,” Steve murmurs quietly. “Take us back to the apartment.” Loki lets the arena fade away behind them, and he looks pitifully at Steve, taking in the blood still smeared on his lips and his nose, his chin…

“You shouldn’t feel sorry for me,” Loki whispers.

“I don’t feel sorry for you. I feel upset that you’re upset. Those aren’t the same thing.” Steve’s hands settle hot on Loki’s cheeks, and Loki closes his eyes. “You thinking of ending it?” Loki bites down hard on his lower lip.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Not what I asked.” Shame bubbles inside Loki like a sea, and Steve looks at him for a long few moments. “You know, I don’t think… I don’t think this is normal.”

“What?” Loki asks, ashamed by the fear in his voice.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Steve murmurs, and he leans in, pressing his forehead to Loki’s, his right hand sliding to settle warm against Loki’s neck. Loki is astonished by the comfort the movement brings him, and he feels himself shudder, pressing closer to Steve and feeling the stickiness of Steve’s blood against his own nose, scenting the thick, coppery tang on the air. “Suicidal thoughts aren’t something a healthy brain has. Under grief, under stress, that’s different, but you… You have ‘em pretty regularly, right?”

“I’m sorry,” Loki whispers.

“You can apologize for breaking my nose, but you can’t apologize for how you _feel_ , Loki.” Shifting forward, Steve slides his arms under Loki’s body, and Loki lets himself be lifted up and off the ground, lets Steve carry him. The shame does not go away, burning hot over his skin like the light from a burning sun, and it is worse like this, with Steve feeling the need to _infantilise_ him— “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t need anything.” Steve carries him through the door and into the bathroom, and he sits on the edge of the bath with Loki easily held in his lap.

“Not true.” Loki watches the hot water taps as Steve turns them on, the water scaldingly hot where it bursts from the taps. He seems to remember, reaching for the cold tap, but Loki stops him, catching him by the wrist.

“No, I want it hot,” he murmurs.

“Thought you would.”

“I should go,” Loki murmurs. “I—”

“No, see, I think if you go, that you’re gonna go… You’re going to go punish yourself. For feeling like this. I don’t know what you’d do, exactly, but I— I don’t know. Maybe go to Strange, let him hurt you? Somebody like that?” Loki remains silent, tasting the bitterness of his own silver tongue in his mouth.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says finally. “I— I appreciate that Midgardians have made of me a symbol of infidelity, but that is wrong.” And that is hardly _all_. On one planet, Loki is worshiped as a _patron_ of infidelity – mixed messages, a case of mistaken identity, and now… Such is godhood.

“I’m not accusing you of infidelity,” Steve says in such a quiet voice that Loki can barely hear it over the heavy run of the water. “I’m saying that I think that you sometimes want someone to be a lot rougher on you than maybe I’d be comfortable with. You want someone to hurt you enough that you don’t have to think any more. You crave it, because it’s a controlled way to exhaust yourself of what you’re thinking. Sound about right?”

“You’re very perceptive,” Loki says. “But I wouldn’t ask you to hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you went and asked… If you got what you needed somewhere else, or got it in a different way, you know,” Steve whispers. Loki shakes his head, _despises_ the very idea of letting someone else touch him, and Steve hushes him quietly. “Okay, okay. Into the bath.” Loki hisses in pain as he slides into the steaming water, feeling it _bite_ at his flesh, and Steve slides in beside him, dousing his nose in hot water and washing away the blood as he turns off the taps.

“You shouldn’t be comforting me. I just broke your nose.”

“You shouldn’t be trying to stop me from comforting you: you’re thinking about some rough stuff right now. Seiðr the door closed, would you?” Loki obeys, sending a push of magic to close the door, and he allows Steve to pull him into his lap. “Loki… You can hurt me, and it doesn’t mean I stop caring. You get that, right?”

 _But I don’t deserve it,_ Loki almost says. _I don’t deserve this._

“Yes,” Loki says instead. “Of course.” Steve doesn’t look like he believes him. His hands wrap tightly, protectively, around Loki’s belly, and he presses his face against Loki’s cool belly. Loki’s flesh is turning lilac as his blood rushes to the surface, attempting to keep him cold, but Steve doesn’t say, doesn’t stop Loki from relishing that hot pain against his flesh.

“If we weren’t together, if you were on some other planet and you were feeling like this, what would you do?” Loki doesn’t say anything, and Steve adds, “You can tell me. I’m not going to judge you.”

“Maybe… Maybe let myself be— Take myself to a bar. Let someone take me home. Someone unkind.” He can feel himself trembling, but Steve is holding him tightly, one of his hands moving to slide over the inside of Loki’s thigh, the touch featherlight in the heat of the water. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“I know we don’t have to,” Steve murmurs, and he drags his lips tenderly against the back of Loki’s neck, making Loki sigh softly. “Why don’t you tell me? The last time you were away from Asgard, and you were feeling like this… What did you do?”

“I normally lock myself away,” Loki murmurs. “I require solitude at times like this.” He hears the ring of Steve’s silence, and self-loathing bubbles in him like a heated sea. “It isn’t… Personal. It isn’t about you.”

“No, I know,” Steve mutters. He sighs, and his hands slide over Loki’s thighs, playing over his knees. “How long? Would you need to be on your own for?”

“I don’t know,” Loki admits. “Usually weeks.”

“I don’t think I’m comfortable with not talking to you for weeks,” Steve says lowly. “I don’t… I don’t mean to imply I don’t trust you. Just— That’s a long time to not see you, when I know you’re feeling low. I’d be worried.” Loki nods. But what else is he to do, to assuage these feelings? He so hates to be around _anybody_ when he has such a turmoil within him – he is so cruel, and so sharp, and he so hates the idea of— “What about texting?”

“What?”

“What if every day, we just check in by text? You can be on your own, and I can just know that you’re okay for the day.” Loki feels the heat of Steve’s chest against his back, and he stays very, very still. He can feel his lips part, feel a strange _burst_ of incomprehension within him.

“You would truly be—” Loki shifts in the water, leaning against the other side of the bath to look at Steve’s face, but the younger man is nothing but quietly earnest. “You truly wouldn’t mind? That I was just… Elsewhere? For weeks on end?”

“It’s not about me,” Steve says. “It’s about _you_. Sure, I’d rather have you around, but if you need isolation, you need isolation.” Loki understands what the other man is saying, but he can’t quite make himself _believe_ it, searches Steve’s face for some sign of deception, some clue as to his true meaning, but… Steve’s expression is unwavering.

“You’re quite certain?” he asks softly.

“If this is what you need,” Steve says, shrugging his shoulders. “Check in by text so I know you’re safe, and that’s… That’s enough.”

“Right,” Loki says softly. “Alright.”

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**August 1 st, 2012  
11:02AM (CEST)**

“And he suggested that I take a few weeks off, away from him.” Loki presses his lips together, and then he gives a small shake of his head, neatly dragging the knife over the surface of the cool meat in his hand and feeling the rabbit’s skin come clean away from the body. He uses a burst of seiðr to set the pelt to dry with the rest, ensuring he needn’t touch it with his wet hands, and Sven watches him as he pares his own rabbit.

“Forgive me,” Sven says delicately. “But I’m failing to see the issue here.”

“He— I—” Loki lets out an irritated exhalation, setting his knife hard against a block, and he sighs, leaning back upon his heels and drawing his seiðr into his palms, using it to carefully separate the different cuts of meat from the bone and setting them neatly onto their plates for Sven to later set aside. The first time Sven had witnessed Loki’s butchery, he’d been unabashedly curious, fascinated by the ease with which he had butchered the animal, but now he is more used to Loki’s finesse, and yet… Still a curiosity shines in Sven’s eyes, a satisfaction. Instead of warming his ego, it instead adds to Loki’s uncertain frustration. “But he doesn’t want me to go, I can _see_ that, and yet he’s telling me to do so anyway!”

“Because he can see that you’re struggling, and that you need this time away, no?”

“Yes, but that’s…” Loki groans, taking what remains of the rabbit’s skeleton and setting it aside. They settle into silence as Loki grasps at the last of the rabbits by the ears, neatly cutting into it and beginning to skin it with smooth, easy movements. How many rabbits has he skinned in his lifetime, across one planet and the next? Tens of thousands? Hundreds?

Sven carefully drags his knife over his own rabbit’s side, splitting it into its constituent parts, and then he says in a mild tone, “Tell me about Thor.”

“Thor?” Loki repeats. “What do you mean?”

“Thor… Does he have a habit of asking you how you felt about something?”

“I don’t see the relevance of this,” Loki says with an abrupt sharpness, losing his grip on the knife as his concentration wanes, and he hisses as he cuts through to the fur of the animal in his hands, tearing through it. He swallows hard, setting the knife aside with a clatter, and he moves to wash his hands, abandoning the butchery before it even begins.

When he turns back, Sven has neatly laid his own knife aside, and is looking at Loki with a pensive expression on his face. “It is relevant,” he says at length, “because your relationship with Thor is a big part of your life, and shapes your other relationships. I ask you again: does Thor ask you how you feel about something? Or does he tend to make decisions _for_ you, regardless of whether you agree with them?”

Loki thinks of Thor arriving at his mill on Fennel 9, Mjolnir in hand, silently expectant as Loki moved to pack his things; he thinks of Thor in the back of his lecture theatre on Koom, impassively staring down at Loki and his blackboard; he thinks of Thor saying “me and my brother” before they marched on Jötunheimr, the land from which Loki’s own wife and children had hailed—

And he thinks of how swiftly he’d settled under Thor’s command, every time.

“He makes the right decisions,” Loki says shortly. “He— I am not… I am not _noble_. When Thor makes a decision, I stand by it, because he’s always right.”

“And what about when he’s wrong?” Sven asks. “What do you say?”

“He isn’t wrong.” Sven raises his eyebrows, and he crosses his arms loosely over his chest. Loki can feel an uncomfortable heat creeping through his body, burning in his cheeks and at the back of his neck: an urge to flee is making itself known, and he does his best to kick it back.

“And when he broke in, then, to suggest your magic be bound instead of your being executed? You told me you were very angry with him, at the time.”

“But he was correct in the end,” Loki says. “If it weren’t for his stepping in, I would be dead, and my children would still be caged. It is… This was the better choice, and I was wrong to argue with his judgement.”

“And Jötunheimr?” Sven asks sharply. “Invading Jötunheimr, invading a sovereign soil and murdering who knows how many Jötnar on a childish whim, endangering not only himself and his brother and his friends, but endangering the very safety of Asgard itself – was that right of him?”

“Of _course_ not, but—”

“Then why didn’t you argue with him?” Sven demands. “Why didn’t you say at the time that it was a foolish idea, that he was being foolhardy and gambling with the lives of others for the sake of a brash and thoughtless anger?”

“I couldn’t!” Loki snaps.

“Why not?”

“I just _couldn’t_.”

“Give me a reason!”

“Because that’s not how it works! Thor is a commander, a conqueror – if I argued with him about his every decision, if I were constantly second-guessing him—”

“But you _aren’t_ second-guessing him, you aren’t picking apart his choices for no reason! You knew before it happened that invading Jötunheimr was wrong, and you still followed him into the breach – why?”

“Because I had to!” Loki nearly _yells_ , and he adds in a harsh whisper, “Because Thor is _better_ than I am, and I _know_ that, and I _have_ to trust him because I know I can’t trust myself!” He feels like his heart is in his mouth, it is beating so hard, and he feels himself trembling where he stands in his place: immediately, Sven’s faux-anger has faded away, and he is looking at Loki with an uncomfortably sad look in his eyes. It isn’t _pity_ , but Loki dislikes it all the same.

“Why can’t you trust yourself, Loki?” Sven asks softly. “What does Thor have that you don’t?”

“Everything,” Loki says miserably. “But nothing less than what he deserves.”

“And what do you deserve? Don’t you think you deserve happiness? Peace? Isolation, when you need it?” Loki holds his tongue, feeling anxious bile rise in his throat, and he turns abruptly toward the sink. Vomit spatters against the steel basin, and Loki flinches when he feels Sven’s hand on his lower back, steadying him and grounding him in the physical plane instead of allowing him to eke further into his haze of thought.

“I don’t deserve anything,” Loki whispers. “The universe doesn’t owe me anything.”

“Ridiculous,” Sven says. “We are not discussing a ledger being balanced – we are not discussing a debt paid or owed. You have an _intrinsic_ value: you are, inherently, deserving of a certain modicum of respect and kindness. You were born with, and you continue to have, value. Loki, are you hearing me? You have a right to happiness. You have a right to health. You have a right to make your own decisions, even if they are wrong.”

Loki feels like being sick again. He turns on the tap, washing the scent of his own bile away, and he rinses his mouth with water.

“Loki…” Sven’s hand is uncomfortably warm against Loki’s spine, but Loki focuses his concentration on it, feeling the flatness of his palm and the press of his aged fingers, feeling Sven’s body beside his own. “You’ve lived a very hard life. Don’t you ever think you deserve a few allowances?”

“Why should I?” Loki asks. “Others have lived much worse lives than me. And they’re… They’re still _good_. They don’t do what I do. I hurt people, and I betray people, and I sow misery wherever I go.”

“You can be good,” Sven tells him softly. “Loki… I know it must be difficult to comprehend this, but your health, your basic well-being: that outranks the rights of others to be comfortable. Rage, grief, self-loathing – all of these are uncomfortable emotions, but you have every right to feel them, and to voice them. How can you bandage a wound when the axe remains in it? We need to talk about Thor, I think. Talk about how he makes you feel.”

“I love him,” Loki whispers, more to the sink than to Sven. “He’s my brother.”

“You can love someone and still hurt them. Someone can love you and still hurt you back. These weeks of isolation… Would you still like to visit me, on Wednesdays? Or do you need a break from me as well?”

“I don’t… I just need solitude. Complete solitude.”

“Very well,” Sven says. He says it as if it doesn’t matter at all – as if this is _normal_ , what Loki wants. “We shall reconvene once you feel ready for people once more. Shall we talk more today?”

Loki hesitates, and then he gives a slow nod of his head.

“What would Thor do?” Sven asks quietly. “If you said you wished for some weeks to be alone?”

“He wouldn’t let me,” Loki murmurs. “He would… Unless I made myself untraceable, he would come for me after three or four days had passed.” He wipes his hands dry, and begins to assist in setting the sectioned pieces of rabbit into bags for the fridge or for the freezer.

“And how did that make you feel?” Sven asks.

“He would do it because he _loves_ me,” Loki insists, his tone bitterly defensive. He feels like he has been backed into a corner. “He doesn’t wish to see me isolate myself, and he would only wish to comfort me.”

“I didn’t ask why he would do it,” Sven says delicately. “I asked how it made you feel.”

“Irritated,” Loki says. “Angry, sometimes. Like he was invading my space. It would… It would frustrate me, when he wouldn’t listen to me, or when he would override my desires. Sometimes, being on Asgard, it would feel—” Loki feels himself trailing off. Guilt is heavy in his chest, like a weight of something rusted at its edges, and he feels like he may vomit at any moment. “I shouldn’t feel like this. Thor has only ever done the best he could to me, and I am _ungrateful_.”

“It is important for us to have boundaries in our lives,” Sven says quietly, folding over a plastic bag and setting the meat to one side. “Someone can have the best intentions in the world, but if they continue to overstep our boundaries, it means we cannot trust them as ordinarily we might. Do you trust Thor?”

“With everything.”

“Really? How many of your names does he know?” Loki is silent. “You see? You can trust Thor with your life, but not with the details of it. You fear he wouldn’t understand, or worse, that he would devalue the parts of your life that are precious to you, on the basis of _protecting_ you.” Loki swallows, hard. “Finish the thought you were starting before. Sometimes, being on Asgard, it would feel…?”

“Like I wasn’t my own person,” Loki whispers. “Like I was… Sometimes, it felt like I was only permitted to exist in my capacity as Thor’s brother. If I tried to forge my own identity, if I tried to do something myself, I would be punished, or doomed to failure. Even in marriage, even in having children of my own, even as I surpassed the mighty Allfather in magical skill, Thor’s shadow hung over me. Sometimes, I felt like I was Thor’s shadow itself – as if I was merely an extension of _him_ , rather than being my own man.” Loki has never voiced these thoughts before. It occurs to him he has never even dared to _think_ them, not all at once like this. He wishes he was dead.

“Sounds exhausting,” Sven says softly. “And does Thor know that he makes you feel this way?” Loki shakes his head. “And why have you never told him?”

“It would hurt him,” Loki says. “To think that he had hurt me, for so long.”

“So you would rather Thor hurt you without realising, for another three thousand years, than perhaps hurt Thor _once_ , all at once, and let the two of you grow together? Loki, are you familiar with the concept of death by one thousand cuts?” Loki leans back against the kitchen counter, feeling a hollow ache in his chest.

“But that isn’t— We each have our place, he and I. Mine is as Thor’s left hand.”

“And if that’s the case, shouldn’t Thor be your right hand?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Thor is a _king,_ by birth, by very essence. He was born to command.”

“And what were you born for?” Sven asks, quietly.

“I don’t know,” Loki says. “I don’t know.”

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**August 1 st, 2012  
3:19PM (EDT)**

When Loki returns home to his office, his every limb _aches_ , and he is utterly exhausted. Sprawled over the chaise long to the side of the room, on his back with his robes artfully arranged over his legs and smoking a long, white pipe carved of some sort of ivory, the Ancient-Loki lies. The smoke is purple and pungently bitter, seeping into Loki’s lungs and warming him from within.

“Hey,” he says, tone mild. “Want to, uh, want to come get high?”             

“Norns,” Loki says. “How did you _know_?” The Ancient-Loki grins, the silver tooth glinting in the dim light.

“I know many things, my child.” Slowly, he moves to stand, and he moves across the room toward him, holding the pipe out from his body. Taking a long drag from its end, he leans in, and Loki opens his mouth, letting his double blow a thick cloud of violet haze into his lungs. The sensation is immediate, a sort of heated tingle that begins in his chest and radiates outward, and Loki sighs as he exhales, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils. “Come,” the Ancient-Loki whispers, and Loki’s office fades away around them.

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**Unknown.  
Unknown.**

Sakaar is just as Loki remembers it. Filthy, with trash piled up in every direction, and he feels himself grow slightly dizzy as the Ancient-Loki brings them down to the balcony of one of the great, golden spires, his knees weak. The Ancient-Loki supports him, letting Loki rest his entire weight upon the older man’s arm, and they move together into a great throne room.

“Aw,” says a familiar voice, and Loki turns to look toward it. “If it isn’t, ha, if it isn’t little Lo-Lo.”

“No touching,” the Ancient-Loki says lowly, and the Grandmaster freezes, one hand in the air, poised to brush against Loki’s cheek. “This one is spoken for.”

“ _Seriously_?” the Grandmaster asks, and he looks Loki up and down, as if inspecting him for signs of ownership. It makes Loki laugh, and the Grandmaster gives him a grin. “Aw, honey, I gotta say… He’s, uh, got nothing on _you_.”

“A few billion lifetimes makes a bigger difference than one might think, En Dwi,” the Ancient-Loki murmurs, and Loki watches as he leans forward, pulling the Elder into a kiss. It’s strange, to see his own face from this perspective, even lined and marked with jewellery: the Ancient-Loki licks soundly into the Grandmaster’s mouth, kissing him hard, and the Grandmaster all but _melts_ into the touch, his hands clutching at the sides of the Ancient-Loki’s neck.

When they break apart, the Grandmaster has a dazed look glittering in his golden eyes, and the Ancient-Loki pats his cheek with plain condescension before moving smoothly past him, gesturing for Loki to follow him. In a haze of strange physicality, feeling his body’s every nerve sing with the weight of his clothes, Loki does.

They sit together in a room dimly lit by scented candles, carpeted by thick cushions and furs, and Loki sighs as the Ancient-Loki draws Loki to lie with his head against his lap, his eyes half-closing. The pipe is brought to Loki’s lips, and Loki takes a long, slow drag, feeling that wonderful smoke dig into his very _veins_ and slow the complicated haze of his thoughts, making Loki feel ever-more acquainted with the shape of his own body, the quiet crackle of his seiðr within him, the warmth of the Ancient-Loki’s thighs beneath his head, an admirable cushion.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” the Ancient-Loki asks softly. Loki looks up at him through the cloud of slowly dissipating smoke, and he feels the Ancient-Loki’s fingers comb delicately through his hair. “Therapy?”

“Yes,” Loki murmurs. “He just… Kept asking me about Thor.”

“Thor is always complicated,” the Ancient-Loki murmurs sympathetically, and Loki lets out a low, pleased groan as the Ancient-Loki’s fingernails drag over his scalp, and his eyes flutter closed. “From universe to universe. You and he are soulmates, in a way.”

“Soulmates?” Loki repeats, unable to keep the disgust out of his tone, and the Ancient-Loki laughs softly.

“I don’t mean to imply an unsavoury element to your bond, my dear,” the Ancient-Loki murmurs, his sonorous voice seeming to settle right into Loki’s body, making itself at home beneath the expanse of his skin. “Although certainly, in some universes, Thor and Loki are lovers.”

“That’s awful,” Loki whispers.

“In others still, you are sworn enemies.”

“That’s worse.” Without seeing his face, Loki knows that the Ancient-Loki is smiling, and he lets himself go relaxed and boneless under the warmth of the pleasant touch through his hair, combing carefully through it. “Is he my only soulmate? In this universe?”

“Ah, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” The pipe comes to Loki’s mouth once more, and he lets himself go liquid under its wonder.

“Tell me a story, Loki,” Loki mumbles as smoke tumbles from between his teeth. “Distract me from it all, before I return home.”

“Alright,” the Ancient-Loki assents immediately – with such speed that vaguely, despite the haze of the physical Loki is comfortably bleeding into, Loki realises he must have known what Loki would ask for. The thought, the truth, sails across the length of his mind like a ship with full sails, and soon disappears beyond the horizon, leaving Loki’s mind a blank sea once more. “It begins with a man of a thousand names…”

“Is this story about me?” Loki asks, immediately.

“Of course,” the Ancient-Loki says.

“This is prophecy?”

“This is truth: it is story.” Loki laughs, airily, and he feels like he is made of something thick and light – like he is a cloud in a distant sky.

“Alright,” he whispers, and he lies back to listen, feeling himself melt into the comforting warmth of the Ancient-Loki’s lap.


	5. Chapter 5

**August 1 st, 2012  
10:12AM**

“Does that sound… Right?” Steve asks, and he groans, setting his face into his hands. “It sounds so _stupid_ when I say it out loud, like I’m trying to let him be isolated, but if he needs space, he needs space.”

“It sounds like you were being very thoughtful,” McDonagh says, scratching an itch at the top of his head. McDonagh’s office is warm, and although the windows are all wide open, it feels _stuffy_ – but Steve had asked not to sit with the AC on. Steve can’t stand the sound of them, so loud in his sensitive ears it’s unbearable, and when he needs quiet to think. “You’re considering Loki’s needs, and trying to think of _his_ perspective. That’s all that can be asked of you.”

“We had a fight,” Steve murmurs. McDonagh raises his eyebrows, and he holds his notepad loosely against his thigh, looking at Steve with a serious expression on his face.

“First fight?” he asks, quietly.

“Nah,” Steve murmurs. “But the first… I don’t know. It felt like a first something. Since we’ve been living together, I guess. Which hasn’t been long, but if you couple in the weeks we were travelling around…”

“I understand,” McDonagh murmurs. “What did you fight about?”

“It was my fault,” Steve says.

“Okay.”

“He— It’s so hard sometimes. I just try to _talk_ to him, and it’s like he shuts down. The number of times I’ve asked him a question and he just changes the damn subject, like he hasn’t heard it at all—” Steve cuts himself off, gritting his teeth. “And I said he could ask me… That he could ask me anything, and that I wouldn’t get angry at him.”

“And?” McDonagh presses quietly.

“He asked me about Peggy Carter… And I was furious. And he knew – he knew, when he asked, that I wouldn’t want to talk about it. And I _said_ that, I said that I wish that I could, but that I wasn’t ready, and he… He sulked. Like a _kid_. Like he doesn’t pick and choose what questions _he_ wants to answer.” Steve feels self-loathing hot within him, and he tightens his hands into fists, so tightly his fingernails dig crescent marks into his palms. “It’s not his fault,” he mutters, leaning heavily against the backs of his hands. “He doesn’t… It’s not his fault.”

“That doesn’t mean that it’s yours,” McDonagh murmurs quietly. “There doesn’t have to be any blame here, Steve. Misunderstandings, underestimations, disagreements… They don’t have to be anyone’s _fault_.”

Simple words. Obvious words. They hit Steve with the force of a sun.

“Oh,” Steve says. He sees McDonagh smile.

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**Unknown  
Unknown**

“The man of a thousand names, we shall call him Isaz,” the Ancient-Loki murmurs, even as his fingers card further into Loki’s hair. Loki groans quietly as his fingers press against his scalp, slowly massaging the skin there. Isaz – _ice_. Loki’s eyes are closed, and he feels the wonderful heat of the Ancient-Loki beneath him, so different to Loki himself – what has made him run so _warm_ , he wonders? For certainly, his fingertips are cool… “Isaz was once a ploughman, on the verdant farms of Gesinter, the great, lush land to the North of the planet Jafara. For years on end, he ploughed the fields with the strength of an ox, seeking naught more than the weight of the yoke upon his shoulders, seeking to lose himself in the strengthening of his own muscle, in the pain of his own evolution.”

Loki remembers.

That had been not so long ago – scarcely two hundred years ago, at that. He remembers the lush, green pastures of every farm; he remembers the shortage of oxen and horses to plough, for a terrible disease had nearly wiped out the domesticated herds from one corner of Gesinter to the next… And Loki had been tired of books, had required physicality, and so he had taken it. Children would delight to see him as they passed, great Atari, who could lift the first sun on one shoulder and the second on the other, so they said. Loki smiles to recall it, distantly. How _content_ he had been, in those short three years – every day, he would work, pulling a plough, assisting in the building of some thing or the laying of a foundation, in digging wells—

“But then came a tragedy,” the Ancient-Loki whispers.

“Yes,” Loki agrees.

“Isaz, the mighty, the unbending, looked into the sky one day. One sun – the second sun – was bigger than it ought be. He thought he was imagining it, but surely it was true: instead of a ring in the sky, t’was a bracelet instead, a disc of red fire, growing larger with every minute that passed. It was time, Isaz mused, for him to leave. Evidently, some cosmic happenstance had thrown the sun off its axis, and soon it would wreak its incandescent destruction upon the planet Jafara – so things must end. He readied himself to go.” Loki had felt fleeting grief, that his time upon the planet was cut short so swiftly, that the planet Jafara itself was doomed. He was worshiped under several names, on Jafara’s shores, and had lived a dozen lives there… “But the people beseeched him. They came to him as he stood tall, with his pack upon his shoulder, and they _begged_ him. Save us, Isaz. Shield us from the sun that once warmed us with your ice.”

(“ _Atari! Atari!”_ the children yelled, rushing about his waist. Hundreds of them, straight from the school house and having met him on the street as they moved back to their homes, to the town square, each knowing they would soon be dead, and having no idea what death could be. _“Atari, you who can lift the sun on one shoulder, can’t you stop it? Can’t you cease its path?”_

The shine in their eyes, the darkness in their cheeks, the way they had _clutched_ at his belt loop, at the jacket slung carelessly about his waist, at his trousers… Loki’s heart aches at the very memory, the way he had knelt down amidst them, all forty of them, and told them softly, quietly, that it was not to be. That he could not, as they hoped, as they _prayed_ , as they believed—

He was not a god. He was but Atari, the ploughman and the builder. He was neither hero nor sun-breaker.

And oh, how they had cried.)

“But Isaz refused,” the Ancient-Loki whispers. His hands have ceased their movements now, instead resting where they are, carded in Loki’s hair and cupping the crown of his head like Loki is something precious, something to be cradled. “Nay, he said, I will not help you, for I cannot, and to try would be my ruin. And so did Isaz leave, leaving a trail of ice in his wake – and the people lost their final hope.”

(The children. He caught a glimpse of the great council hall when the sun was a great platter in the sky, when the light was unbearable, when grasses were beginning to catch. He glanced through the window, and he saw the townsfolk gathered, every one of them, on the floor of the great hall, many of them crouching away from the windows, which were growing hot with the light.

Not the children. Every one of them was gathered by the window, despite the way the sun threatened to scald their skin – and each of them looked at him with such _hatred_ in their eyes, that he should have the power to save them, and refuse. Loki had been unable to withstand it, the weight of their eyes on him, and he had slowly looked up to the sun in the sky, feeling its heat bite hard at the bare skin of his chest.

Their loathing was worse.

Nothing is so painful, nothing is so _unbearable_ , as to be hated by a child. The innocent, who have never hated aught before, but turn their hatred on you…

He had dropped his pack on the ground, letting it fall. And slowly, taking one step after the next, he had taken to the sky. Glancing back, just once, he saw a handful of children pressed up against the heating glass, looking at him with _awe_ in their eyes, awe, and love—

And hope.)

“But Isaz felt the weight of their tears upon his mighty shoulders, the weight of their desperation, their fear, and at the very last moment, he turned back. He risked his doom, and he pitted his great might against a _star_ — And won.”

“Foolish,” Loki mutters. “I could easily have died.”

“But you didn’t,” the Ancient-Loki whispers. Loki opens his eyes, looking up at the Ancient-Loki’s face. His smile is soft and indulgent as his hands, scarred and calloused, cup Loki’s cheeks. Where he leans down to look at Loki, the many chains about his neck clink quietly against one another, hanging down away from his chest. “Isaz took that sun’s power, and he _swallowed_ it. Its heat ran hot through his icy veins, and he used himself as a conduit for its energy: on the planet below, the trees grew taller and thicker and broader than ever below. The fields that Isaz had ploughed grew ripe with crops so high the peoples of Jafara would never hunger again – even the buildings he had helped build were covered over with a curtain of thick vine, which flowered in a thousand colours. And when the sun was exhausted, Isaz fell like a star to the ground below, doomed by the energy he had taken within him. He landed hard in the township he had fostered, and his skin _crackled_ with heat – none of the townsfolk dared move close to him, no one…”

“Except the children,” Loki murmurs.

“Except the children,” the Ancient-Loki agrees. “Each of them ran forth, and although Isaz protested, although he told them that he would surely kill them, they ignored him. They touched his broad shoulders and his mighty hands, and they wove flowers into his hair, which was green like the plants he had so-caused to flourish. So many, in fact, that the sky – once blue – was now green itself. And they encouraged the townsfolk to come forth, to take for themselves – as the children did – a little of the energy that plagued Isaz’ tired body, threatening to melt his icy form to nothingness. And Isaz, too exhausted to do aught more, shared that awful heat with two _thousand_ … And thus did the people save him, as he had saved them.”

Loki smiles.

“They named the town after you,” the Ancient-Loki murmurs.

“Yes,” Loki agrees. “But that day came not without its price. Those townsfolk… They live as they have done for two hundred years. No one is born, and nobody dies. Those children are still children, even now.”

“They don’t mind,” the Ancient-Loki murmurs. “Why should you?”

Loki sighs.

“You don’t tell that story to anybody,” the Ancient-Loki says softly, his fingers drawing circles on Loki’s cheeks. “Why is that?”

“Who would believe it?” Loki asks.

“People would believe it of Thor,” the Ancient-Loki points out. “Why not you?”

“Is there more to the story?” Loki asks, and the Ancient-Loki’s thin lips quirk into a smile once more. Crow’s feet form at the edges of his ineffable eyes, and at the crease of his cheeks.

“Yes,” the Ancient-Loki says, as if delighted to be reminded. “One day, some centuries later, Isaz would be a shield once more. He will stand against the current of the universe itself, and just as he stood in the path of that sun, he shall save everything. He shall be a _hero_.”

“A hero? Him? _Me?_ ” Loki scoffs. “Never.”

“ _Forever_ ,” the Ancient-Loki replies, and he brings the pipe to Loki’s mouth once more.

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**August 1 st, 2012  
10:27AM**

 “Is he very open about his feelings?” McDonagh asks. “Does he tell you, for example, when he likes or dislikes something?”

“Not verbally, usually,” Steve murmurs. “Sometimes I worry…”

“Worry about what?” McDonagh presses.

“He said to me, last night… We were just talking about different stuff, about what his life used to be like, when he was much younger, and he said— So he’s got a lot of identities, right? Like, he isn’t just _Loki_ , he’s hundreds of people at once, and he says that they’re all parts of him, all of them making up a greater whole. Nat explained it as kinda like a stereoscope – you know, you only see through one lens at a time, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t another dozen discs in the scope.”

“Right,” McDonagh says, nodding his head slowly. He makes a small note on his pad.

“And I said that… I kinda related to that. Not— Not completely, you know, but that me, _Steve_ , and Captain America, they’re different people. They’re separate. And he said, _yeah_ , of course. I was waiting for you to come to that conclusion. And I asked him if he was waiting for me to figure out anything _else_ …” Steve presses his lips together, and then he says, “And he said it wasn’t like that. He said that because of how different we are, in age, because of like, how much more experience he has than me, that he has to basically pick and choose the stuff he teaches me himself, and the stuff he lets me figure out on my own. That otherwise, he’d just be stifling my growth.” McDonagh watches him for a long few moments, his watery eyes focused on Steve’s face, and Steve can see the slight quirk of his smile, the distance in it.

“Isn’t that good?” McDonagh asks quietly. “You know, Steve, there are only a few years between us, but _really_ – in terms of your experience, in terms of the life you’ve lived – you’re only what, twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”

“I know, I know,” Steve murmurs. “He’s… He’s respectful, and he wants me to be able to make my own way, I _get_ that. But the thing is— He’s doing all that, and he’s thinking of me. But he said that he lets his brother think things about him that aren’t true, that he lets Thor think of him as a worse guy than he is, just because it’ll make _Thor_ a better person. Isn’t that— Don’t you think that’s screwed up?”

“Screwed up is very relative in my profession,” McDonagh says, and Steve feels himself laugh. “Are you just worried about his relationship with his brother, or are you worried that this could mean he might be doing something similar with you?”

“Both, I guess,” Steve says. “I don’t know. Thor’s a good guy, but sometimes I can’t help but think that that relationship is… Off. Skewed.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” McDonagh says. “Perhaps you should speak to him about it.”

“Maybe,” Steve mutters. “Maybe. I don’t know how to talk to him. I told you, he never… He never outright _says_ how he feels. Half the time, when I see he’s pissed at something, it’s just deduction, based off the way he wrinkles his nose or the way he avoids something.”

“Perhaps you should outright mention feelings, then,” McDonagh suggests quietly. “Say, simply, how does this make you feel? How do you feel about x or y? What makes you feel safe, happy, respected?”

“That seems…” Steve trails off.

“Unnatural?” McDonagh asks. Steve nods. “Communication rarely feels as natural as it should. Sometimes, we must communicate through difficult subjects… That isn’t easy, and it doesn’t feel natural.”

 

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**Unknown  
Unknown**

Loki groans, going utterly boneless on the table. The Ancient-Loki’s fingers continue, drawing hard over the length of his back and digging hard into the heavy muscle there, and Loki presses his face into the pillow that’s been set under his chin. Loki is gloriously high, floating on a wave of comfortable thoughtlessness, and yet alongside that astral simplicity, he is grounded in the physicality of the Ancient-Loki’s fingers drawing over the planes of his back, digging into the skin.

“Thor is complicated,” Loki mumbles, echoing what the other man had said earlier.

“Always,” the Ancient-Loki agrees sagely. “He doesn’t mean to be cruel, when he is. None of them do – not even Odin, or the rest.”

“The rest?” Loki repeats, a little distractedly. “You mean Mother?” The pause is almost infinitesimal.

“Yes, Frigga,” the Ancient-Loki says, his tone mild. “My apologies: I get confused at times, from one reality to the next. I was thinking of Baldr.” It tastes like a lie, but Loki is too relaxed to address it.

“Baldr,” Loki repeats quietly. “Do I always kill him? In the universes where he exists? I remember doing that. I remember killing him. Divine memory.”

“Not always,” the Ancient-Loki murmurs, and he draws more warm, tingling oil over Loki’s back, letting it pool in the divot of his spine. Loki _melts_ into the massage table, amazed at how _pleasurable_ it is, to feel the Ancient-Loki’s fingers drag over his flesh, to dig into the skin and slowly tease away the knots in his muscle. Perhaps it is the drug that makes him so amenable – he barely remembers drawing off his shirt to sprawl upon this table, but certainly, he must have done it. He doesn’t mind. Intimacy, like this, physical intimacy… There seem to be no limits, between himself and himself. “You can tell Thor things, you know. He will try to listen.”

“He’s never tried before,” Loki mutters, and the Ancient-Loki pinches the sensitive skin at his hip, making Loki hiss in pain.

“You know that’s not true,” the Ancient-Loki scolds him quietly, already soothing the pain away. “He often tries, in his own way. You ought not attack his heart simply because you dislike his method of presenting it.”

Guilt comes, but it is fleeting, chased away by smoke. “No,” Loki agrees, with no small amount of reluctance. “I oughtn’t.”

“You know,” the Ancient-Loki murmurs, dragging his fingernails over Loki’s shoulder blades and making tension bleed from him like _light_. “I think that in the past, you’ve isolated yourself because you have no one to communicate your feelings to. Because you feel lonely, whether you’re with people or without, and you would rather bury your heart in painting or weaving than to discuss it with another.”

“Maybe,” Loki says.

“I’m not saying not to take your weeks away, my darling,” the Ancient-Loki says softly. “I’m simply saying not to lock the door.” Loki thinks on it, for a long few moments.

“Okay,” he says.

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**August 1 st, 2012  
10:55AM**

“Thanks, Doc,” Steve murmurs. He shakes McDonagh’s hand, and he sees the older man smile, the expression pleasant and warm. “Wish me luck, would ya?”

“Why?” McDonagh asks.

“Today’s Wednesday. We’re having dinner with the Maximoffs on Friday. The twins. The kids. Magneto.”

“Oh, shit,” McDonagh says, shaking his hand a little harder. “ _Good luck_.” Steve laughs, and McDonagh laughs with him, giving him a little salute as Steve heads out, his hands in his pockets as he descends the stairs.

Today, it’s a day off. He catches a movie, sits in the back of the theatre on his own to watch it. _Star Wars: A New Hope_ , 1977, director George Lucas. It’s a pretty good flick, and he ticks it off the list – one down, five more to go. As he leaves the movie theatre, adjusting the set of his baseball cap to keep his face hidden, he sees a few groups of people glance at him, perplexed and suspicious… ‘Cause what kinda crazy person goes to the movies on their own, huh?

The thing about 2012, he decides, is that everybody’s so caught up in each other’s lives. Social media, texting, constantly being hooked into other people, even just having security cameras everywhere – people, it seems to him, are antsy about doing stuff on their own. What if somebody sees them? What if somebody realises they enjoy their own company?

Steve chuckles to himself, and he walks out toward Pier 45.

Loki is waiting for him, perched on the edge of a fence with an ice cream in his hand – Raspberry Ripple, and he gives Steve a small smile.

“Hey,” Steve says. “I haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

“Spoil your lunch,” Loki says magnanimously, and Steve’s lips twitch as he takes the cone, bringing it up to his mouth. They fall into step together as the walk down the path of the Hudson River Park, and Steve inhales, taking in a weird scent that clings to Loki’s clothes.

“You been smoking?”

“Oh, I was _very_ high until, I don’t know, twenty minutes ago.” Steve’s lips quirk into a small smile, and he looks at Loki. The guy is… Visibly relaxed. There’s not so much tension held I his shoulders, and he’s loose-limbed and comfortable, and his smile is free and easy. Good.

“They say Mary Jane’s pretty good for depression,” Steve says.

“Really? I don’t know her.” After a moment’s incredulous pause, Steve shoves him in the shoulder, and Loki laughs, interlinking their arms. They must look funny, side by side – Steve, in his baseball cap and his sport jacket, his slacks; Loki with his hair in a bun, a bar through his ear and his pink shirt tight to the panels of his chest and abs, his pants so tight they tuck _into_ his ankle boots instead of falling over them. “How as therapy?” Steve glances down at Loki’s hands, and he sees the black paint shining on the nails. It’s a good look.

“Fine,” Steve says. “Learned a new trick for, uh, communication.”

“Really? Do tell.”

“It’s pretty simple,” Steve admits, taking a long lick of ice cream. “You start every sentence with I. _I_ feel, _I_ think, _I_ believe… No assuming what the other person thinks, or feels. You just kinda get across how you think about something, then ask them to do the same.”

“That’s good,” Loki murmurs. “I’m willing to try that one.” He looks out over the Hudson river, his expression momentarily far away. “I spoke with my counterpart. The Ancient-Loki.” Steve inhales, slowly.

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’d he say?”

“Not much,” Loki murmurs. “I rather got the impression he just wanted something to do, so he whisked me away. Painted my nails, cut my hair. Gave me a massage. The whole service.” Steve laughs.

“God, what does a guy gotta do to get one of those, huh? I can’t tell you what I’d give for an old man Steve Rogers to come and give me a free shoe shine.” Loki grins, showing his teeth, and he leans in to Steve for just a moment, his fingers spreading over Steve’s forearm. Steve notices an old guy watching them as he passes, and he nearly stiffens, but the guy just smiles, distantly, and averts his gaze forward again. “No, but… Really, really. He say anything useful?”

“He made some vague predictions about my future,” Loki murmurs. “Nothing more useful than the average fortune cookie.”

“Can’t win ‘em all, I guess,” Steve murmurs.

“May I tell you a story?” Loki asks softly. “It’s self-indulgent, but… I’ve never told it before. I’d like to.”

“Sure,” Steve says quietly. Loki’s expression is quietly contemplative, his thin lips pressed into a line.

“I’m not sure when to start,” Loki murmurs.

“Well, let’s start with, uh, who the story’s about.”

“His name was Atari,” Loki says. “He was a Jafaran. Eight feet tall at the shoulder, with shoulders like an ox, he towered over most Jafarans… But he was gentle. Exceedingly so. On Jafara, a plague had devastated many of the livestock populations, and the townspeople of Ataron – then known as Farese – they lacked animals with which to pull their ploughs. But Atari, he wished only for the meditative work that such an act of strength would offer him, and for room and board, he ploughed the fields himself.”

“Is this a story about you?” Steve asks softly. There is a long pause as they walk together, Loki’s face a mass of conflicting thoughts. It’s not a hard question for most people, but maybe it _is_ hard for Loki. He thinks of how much Loki had wanted to hide his other selves in the first place, worrying that it’d be uncomfortable, that it’d feel strange, for humans to understand.

“Yes,” he says, finally. “It is truth: it is story. It’s about me.”

“Good. I love hearing about you,” Steve murmurs, and as he finishes his ice cream, he listens carefully to Loki talk.

It’s a good story. It’s a better truth.

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**August 1 st, 2012  
06:18PM**

“It makes me feel… Sad.”

It is Loki that suggests the game. They both like art, and so they move from one canvas to the next in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, asking a simple question. _How does it make you feel?_ They’ve been here three-and-a-half hours. It’s the best date Steve’s ever been on – least of all because they can walk around the whole thing, hand-in-hand.

“Sad?” Steve repeats, and he turns back to the canvas. _La Coiffure_ , reads the caption. _1905._ His gaze flits over the woman in the foreground, at her naked thighs and her breasts, at the way she is leaning forward so that the woman behind her can reach for her hair. Their expressions aren’t sad. The first woman looks contemplative, and the second one, simply concentrated on her task. “Why?”

“I used to brush Thor’s hair, when we were children,” Loki murmurs. “I would always bathe first – he would insist. And after, when I was already dry, he would sit naked on a cushion, and I would stand behind him, and brush his hair – and braid it. He grew his hair out for a while, when we were— I don’t know, the equivalent of—”

“You don’t have say equivalents,” Steve says softly. “You can just say how old you were. I won’t be weirded out.”

“Really?” Loki asks, amusedly. “You won’t be deterred whatsoever, if I say, _when I was two hundred-and-forty, and he was three-hundred-and-twelve?”_

Steve pauses. “Yeah, okay. That’s pretty weird.” Loki laughs. Looking back to the canvas, the smile slowly fades away from his face, and Steve asks, “It make you sad because things aren’t like that anymore?”

“It makes me sad because I realise, looking back, that I never spoke. That was a listening time for me – I was usually sleepy from my bath, and I never felt like talking. So I would sit Thor in front of me, and occupy myself with his hair, and I would have him talk instead. He would try to ask me questions, try to get me to talk too, about our days, about what I felt on one thing or another… And I never did.” Loki’s hand shifts where it is entwined with Steve’s, and Steve inhales, very slowly. “Thor has never learned to listen to me,” Loki murmurs, “because I’ve never given him the opportunity to learn how.”

“It’s not your fault,” Steve says.

“Isn’t it?”

“Nah. You don’t have to, uh, you don’t have to assign blame, for something like this. Sometimes, a miscommunication is just a miscommunication. It doesn’t have to be anybody’s fault.” Loki blinks, leaning back slightly, and Steve can see his expression subtly change as he considers what Steve has said. “ _Eanna McDonagh, 2012_.” Loki lets out a short exhalation, not quite a laugh, and he turns back to the Manguin.

“How does it make _you_ feel?” Loki asks. 

“I don’t know,” Steve says, looking over the painting. “I guess sometimes… Back when I was a kid and a teenager, you know, I never really talked to girls. I was short, and I was skinny, and I had asthma. I was that kid _wheezing_ in the back of class, who kept fighting the bigger guys. Girls never liked me. Then, with the serum, it’s like every gal’ll give me the time of day, but I—” Steve slowly shakes his head. “It’s different, being a woman, and I know that it is. You know, my parents raised me to be respectful of women, and especially with Peg in the army, I knew they got a hard rap where the men didn’t.” He feels Loki stiffen slightly at the mention of Peggy, but he rubs his thumb slowly over the side of Loki’s pale hand, and he feels Loki relax marginally. “I guess I look at pictures like these, of women, and I wonder what they talk about, when they’re on their own. How differently they talk. Why.”

“Well, now my childhood anecdote seems ridiculous,” Loki murmurs.

“Um, excuse me,” says a voice behind them, and the two of them turn as one, their hands still entwined. Staring up at them is a young boy, and immediately Loki offers him a warm, friendly smile. The kid’s small, with mousy hair and dark eyes, and he wears a t-shirt emblazoned with the Iron Man helmet. “You’re—” The kid looks around, then lowers his voice to say, “Um, I know who you guys are. I don’t wanna, um, I don’t want to ruin your date or anything, but I was wondering, if you’d uh—”

“Of course he’ll sign your autograph,” Loki says, and the kid grins. “Here—” Loki draws a pen from behind the kid’s ear, and he laughs.

“Was that real magic, or sleight of hand?”

“The best tricks involve both,” Loki says sweetly, and Steve takes the pen, taking the kid’s notebook. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Uh, Peter,” the kid says. “Peter Parker.”

 _To Peter,_ Steve writes on the page. _Loving the shirt. Captain America._

He hands the notebook back, and Parker grins, then holds the notebook to Loki. Loki stares at it, uncomprehending. “Uh, Mr Bölson? You don’t have to—”

“No, of course I will,” Loki says hurriedly, and Steve doesn’t miss the sudden lilac that dances over Loki’s cheeks as he takes up the pen, signing the next page with a flourish.

“He’s never been asked for his autograph before,” Steve murmurs, nudging the kid in the shoulder. “You keep that safe, huh?”

“I will,” Peter says, and Loki hands the notebook back. “So, like, you guys… I didn’t know Captain America was gay.” Loki and Steve exchange a look.

“Uh—”

“Peter!” says a voice from behind them, and a broad-shouldered guy in his forties sets his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Uncle Ben, I’m fine,” Peter says. “I was just asking these guys to point me to the Picassos.” The uncle gives them a polite smile, hurried, and as he leans Peter away, he turns back to them, and gives a small salute. Steve can’t help the smile on his face as he rubs the back of his neck, and he meets Loki’s eye.

“That was _cute_ ,” Loki murmurs. “I’ve never used that word before, but it seems _so_ apropos.”

“Well, yeah, and you’ve ruined the novelty of you saying _cute_ by following it with apropos, so…” Loki draws him abruptly close, so that their chests are flush against one another and Loki’s hands are on his hips. Steve leans into the kiss, and when they break apart, he asks, “So… How did that make you feel?”

“Good,” Loki murmurs softly. Like a hero.”

“See? Atari’s not so far behind you.” He feels the freezing cold of Loki’s chest against his own, strangely comforting, and he asks, “I didn’t ask you, at the time. How did it feel, to— To swallow the sun?”

“It was agony,” Loki murmurs. “The worst pain I’d ever felt, occupied a thousandfold with every second that passed. I felt my blood boil in my veins, felt my organs tear and reconstitute themselves a dozen times per minute, felt my bones crackle with energy current.” The words evoke memory, and for just a second, Steve is back in Howard Stark’s crazy tank, electricity running through him at an insane voltage as a serum settles in his veins—

“Sounds familiar,” he says quietly. With slow, grim understanding, Loki nods his head. “D’you think you’d ever have more kids?” For a few moments, Loki’s expression is neutral as they move away from the Manguin, and slowly toward the exit.

“I don’t know,” Loki says. “Two months ago, I would have said _never_. Now… Things are different. Probably not. But the idea doesn’t fill me with the same terror that once it did. What about yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “I never thought I’d live old enough to have kids of my own. First I was sick, then in the army…” Steve trails off, and then he shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, Loki. Could happen.”

“Could happen,” Loki repeats. “This was nice. I… I enjoyed this. Speaking with you so openly. We ought play this game more often, I think.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees, readily, easily. “Okay.”

They walk home together, hand-in-hand. Steve thinks of asking, on the way, if Loki is still gonna go off for a few weeks, if he’s still gonna isolate himself… But Loki is relaxed, and cheerful, and he’s almost worried he’ll offset that good mood by asking about the one that preceded it.

“You ready for the dinner on Friday?” he asks instead.

“More ready than you are,” Loki murmurs. “Do you think we’ll survive?”

“Who is to say?” Loki laughs, tipping his head back, and he leans back against a street lamp that isn’t lit yet, because the sun has yet to sink down. “How does it make you feel?” Steve asks, nodding up toward the lamp’s duo of dim bulbs, and Loki looks up at it before turning back to Steve.

“ _Voraciously_ sexual,” he says. “And yourself?”

“It’s the biggest coincidence,” Steve says, leaning closer. “But I feel just the same.” They don’t even bother to walk the rest of the way home: a dimensional transitway hooks them around the waists, and they tumble into bed already half-dressed, still laughing.


	6. Chapter 6

**August 2 nd, 2012  
4:01AM**

Loki clambers out of bed and immediately shifts between dimensions. New York is immediately gone from him, and instead he finds himself comfortably in his library in the Fon System, surrounded by books on every side, and away from anybody else in the universe. There are other places he might go to, of course, but this library is distinctly _his own_ , and it is… Safe. Comfortable. _His_.

Skywalking toward the ceiling, he clambers onto the bed that hangs by chains from the very top of the room, enjoying the hardness of the stone mattress, and he lies down on it, alone.

Loki likes to share a bed, this much is true: although Steve is very warm, it is pleasant indeed to feel him in the bed beside him, a shadow of heat in the bed with him, a _comfort_. But there is something to be said as well, Loki thinks, for sleeping alone.

He does, for many hours more.

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**August 2 nd, 2012  
7:15AM**

When Steve texts him, to ascertain his safety, Loki assures him of it.

Then, he goes back to sleep.

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**August 2 nd, 2012  
12:12PM**

Loki stands from bed, eats a handful of dry crackers, and returns to it. He sleeps some more.

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**August 2 nd, 2012  
03:51PM**

At some point, Loki went from _asleep_ to _awake_ – he knows not when or how. But for the longest time, he lies in the centre of his stone bed, staring up at the carved mahogany of his ceiling and feeling absolutely nothing at all, _thinking_ absolutely nothing at all.

It is utterly exhausting.

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**August 2 nd, 2012  
09:52PM**

Loki fills half a dozen canvases with careful paint, creating images in oil.

He decides he despises them all, and burns them in a fit of pique that he regrets before the process is even finished. Although he could still save the paintings yet to burn, he finds he lacks the energy to do so, and so instead he powerlessly watches them burn.

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**August 3 rd, 2012  
02:48AM**

Loki cannot sleep. It his own fault.

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**August 3 rd, 2012  
03:09AM**

Remembering abruptly that he ought eat something, Loki devours nearly an entire loaf of bread, and washes it down with an acidic drink from the P’nar system.

He passes out whilst taking a dip cool pool of the fountain.

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**August 3 rd, 2012  
09:25AM**

Still damp, Loki clambers from the fountain to his bed.

 

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**August 3 rd, 2012  
04:02PM**

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Loki says, suddenly sitting up in bed. “I need to bake.”

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**August 3 rd, 2012  
6:15PM**

Steve watches in silence as Loki carefully sets the pastries he had made onto a plate. They look _incredible_ , made of a complicated, many-layered pastry that melts in the mouth, and through their artful twist he has woven lines of a strawberry compote and a dusting of dark cocoa and…

It’s artful. Easy. Steve could watch him bake for days at a time.

It’s been… Weird, the past day or so.

Yesterday morning, Steve had woken as dawn broke, and the bed beside him had been empty. Loki wasn’t to be found anywhere in the apartment, even in his office, and Steve had done his best to force his worry down until after his morning run and breakfast.

**Steve Rogers, 07:12  
Hey, you good?**

**Loki, 07:12  
Yes. : ) I am simply taking some time to myself. See you tomorrow, at around four?**

**Steve Rogers, 07:13  
Sure, sounds good.**

It had made Steve laugh, to see Loki use a _smiley_ , but—

It had been odd, too, moving around in the apartment and having no idea where the guy was. Was he sitting down somewhere, painting at an easel? Was he out in Alaska? Was he right next to Steve, just invisible, so that Steve wouldn’t talk to him?

Weird. _Weird_. But good, too.

When Loki had showed up at four o’clock, already wearing an apron to begin his work in the kitchen, he had seemed well-rested and at-ease, and Steve had thrilled to see him with such a peaceful expression on his face. In the meantime, they’ve been talking about the family dinner tonight, and although he feels a little nervousness, Loki seems entirely comfortable. He lets his hair down, allowing it to hang loose around his shoulders, and Steve watches as he conjures two chains that neatly move over it, holding it back from his head and creating a loose pair of bands on each side of his head, with a thinner chain running down the parting of his hair.

“I like that,” Steve murmurs. “You’ve worn that before?”

“Not on Midgard,” Loki murmurs. He smiles, reaching up and drawing his fingers over the side of one of the chains. “I stole this many years ago, from a merchant on K’trai. He blasphemed me, abusing his workers in my name, and so I sunk his fleet of ships into the ocean. Tricksters… None of us commit cruelty for the sake of cruelty. There is a sense of justice in all of us.”

“All of you?” Steve asks softly. “What, that’s like… A _kind_ of god?”

“A common one,” Loki agrees. “Two examples here on Earth would be Dionysus and Ananse.”

“Ananse,” Steve repeats. “I know Dionysus, but… Who’s that?”

“He’s wonderful,” Loki murmurs, his lips quirking up fondly at their edges. “He’s truly a terrible old man, most incorrigible. I very much look up to him. I know not where he is worshiped, precisely, but I know the people who worship him – the Akans. He is a spider: not merely a trickster, he is also a patron of storytellers. We share much in common.” He chuckles, and he reaches out, adjusting a button on Steve’s shirt. “I’ve not thought of him in _centuries_ … Not since I last came to Midgard, millennia ago.”

“And Dionysus?”

“Oh,” Loki says, shaking his head dismissively. “I think of him all the time. I’ve not seen him—” Loki sighs, softly. “Not since some months before the revelation of my blood.” His hand moves from Steve’s chest to his own, settling loosely over his heart. “Funny, how you can forget you miss someone until you happen upon their memory.” That is funny. Steve thinks of all the people he almost forgets, in the day-to-day – the other Howling Commandos, Doctor Erskine, his mom and dad, Bucky…

“Maybe you should write to him,” Steve murmurs quietly. “I kinda… I don’t know. I guess I thought you didn’t really have any friends in Asgard.”

“I didn’t,” Loki says simply. “Dionysus almost never came to Asgard – occasionally he would accompany a party of the Olympians, but almost never would he deign to do so. He would entertain a Dökkálf, a dwarf – even an _angel_ before he would permit an Æsir at his table, myself excluded.”

“An angel?” Steve repeats, but Loki looks past him to the clock on the wall, and he pats Steve’s chest.

“You ought change into a dress shirt,” Loki says, turning back to the plate and setting a glass cover it. “If you wish to walk, we ought go.” _An angel_ , Steve repeats in his head as he moves to grab the blue shirt from the bed. _An angel_. Surely, surely, there’s something off about Loki’s Allspeak, if he’s saying an _angel_. What—

No. No. A question for another day.

“Are you gonna wear a tie?” Steve calls out into the corridor, buttoning up the dress shirt.

“What? I— No. Why, are _you_ going to wear a tie?”

“Not if you’re not going to wear a tie. But it’s— They’re not gonna wear ties, right? Are we going to look underdressed if we don’t wear ties?”

“I don’t know,” Loki says, appearing in the corridor as he pulls his apron off. Loki is already smartly dressed, his silver-grey shirt tucked neatly into tight blue trousers. Again, he wears ankle boots – Steve couldn’t wear them himself, but he rather likes this pair, and they give Loki an extra two inches of height with their block heel. “Surely it’s better to be mildly underdressed than _over_ dressed, though. I should hate to appear in ties to see everyone else in mere jerseys.”

“Right. Right, yeah, you’re right.”

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**August 3 rd, 2012  
06:48PM**

The boy that answers the door is wearing a tie, and Steve kicks himself.

“Hello, William,” Loki says, and then adjusts himself. “I mean— _Billy_.” Billy grins, looking up between the two of them through his curtain of brown hair. He wears a red dress-shirt with his black tie, and he’s matched the yarmulke with the shirt, its colour a deep, satiny red. He looks like his mother – Steve sees that immediately, sees the similarity in their soft brown eyes and warm, dark skin, and he immediately puts his hand out to shake.

“Hi there, Billy. I’m Steve.”

“Steve,” Billy repeats, a little awkwardly. “I’m, um— Kind of a fan. Come in, come in.” The apartment is cosy and warm, with blankets and knitted cushions on every surface, crystals hanging from the window, tapestries in rich reds and golds and yellows on the walls… Yeah. Yeah, Steve can see this is Wanda’s place immediately. “This is my boyfriend, Teddy.”

“Hello there, Teddy. Please, call me Loki,” Loki says warmly, holding the plate of pastries against his hip as he shakes Teddy’s hand, and then he pats Steve’s shoulder, moving into the apartment and disappearing through an archway. Teddy’s a tall boy with broad shoulders, his blond hair straight and hanging over his blue eyes, and Steve greets him with a friendly smile and a handshake.

“So you guys are… Hulkling— And Wiccan.”

“That’s right,” Teddy agrees, and he gestures for Steve to join them in sitting down on the sofa. The living room has a sofa and several comfortable chairs gathered around an empty coffee table, under which Steve can see a dozen gameboards neatly stacked. The rest of the living room is dominated by a dining table set for ten, where long candles are lit in trios in three golden candelabras, and like Steve, Wanda doesn’t seem to own a television.

“Stop it,” he hears. “Stop, I will— You pop that gum one more time and I’ll— _Come here!”_ There is a crash in the corridor, and then Pietro and a younger man – a man the spitting _image_ of Pietro himself – are wrestling on the floor, with Pietro pinned beneath his junior in a blur of green and grey respectively. There’s a choking sound, sped up and unnaturally fast, and then Pietro is standing above his nephew, pinning him with a foot on his chest, and he is a tissue in his hand. “ _Filthy_ habit. Disgusting. It’ll rot your teeth, and more importantly, it inhibits hunger – you know, in Singapore—”

“This isn’t Singapore, you crazy old man, let me _up_ —”

“I’m not going to let you up, young man, until you learn the error—”

“Pietro,” Wanda says, her hands on her hips as she comes out from the kitchen, a dish towel slung over her left shoulder. Behind her, Loki watches Pietro with raised eyebrows, seeming amused. “Please don’t stand on your nephew.” Pietro steps back, and immediately the younger speedster is on his face, glaring up at his uncle – and he _must_ glare up at him, because Pietro is nearly eight inches taller than him. Clinging to the back of his head, pinned neatly in with his silver hair, is a yarmulke of dark blue silk.

“Hey, Piet,” Steve says.

“Hello, Captain Rogers.”

“Captain— Oh my God, you’re—” Pietro lifts his nephew _bodily_ by the scruff of the neck, and Billy laughs, putting his head in his hands. “I meant _gosh_ , Uncle Piet, put me down!”

“Apologise,” Pietro says, unflinching.

“I’m _sorry_ for blaspheming. You happy?”

“Almost never,” Pietro says, but he drops the kid down, and immediately the young man is across the room, a grin on his face. Up close, Steve can see he has Pietro’s grey eyes and the same shock of silver hair, but his features are much more like Wanda’s – richer, darker skin, and round lips and cheeks.

“I’m Tommy,” he says, all his teeth on show. “G— _Gee_ , it’s great to have you here, sir, seriously, _really_ —” Tommy’s hand is hot to the touch, much like Pietro’s are, and Steve smiles as he shakes it. He glances to Pietro, and he sees there is a slight smile on his serious lips, a smile he shares with Wanda.

There is a knock on the door, and Pietro disappears from sight, flickering down the corridor.

“Mom, you need anything else done?” Tommy asks, speeding across the room in much the same way, and Wanda reaches out, gently patting his cheek. There’s only an inch of height between them, Tommy just taller than his mother.

“Would you get a cushion for your grandfather’s chair? And Tommy, don’t run so hard in the house – you’ll wear out my carpet.”

“Okay,” Tommy says, and he walks at a more human pace, bumping fists with Loki (who seems baffled by the motion, but performs it dutifully) as he moves toward a store cupboard to pull out a cushion. Steve looks to the door, and he sees Erik Lehnsherr. He’s taller than his son by a few inches, but the resemblance between their faces is utterly uncanny – Steve had expected Erik to have pale skin in comparison to his children, but his skin is only a shade or so lighter, retaining a dusky brown colouring, and his features have the same hard, angular planes as Pietro’s, giving him an eternally severe look and a natural scowl. The main differences are in his eyes, which are a piercing blue instead of grey, and his hair, which is cut short and tight to his head instead of drawn loosely back and relatively long, like Pietro’s own. By no means does he look his age – he looks like a youthful sixty, not like an eighty-something.

Then, Lorna Dane. She’s beautiful, but it’s a slightly terrifying beauty, much like the beauty of Loki himself. Her hair cascades in green waves around her head, and her dark lips are held in a serious line. She’s much paler than her father and her siblings, but she shares some of Erik’s bone structure. And then, for some reason, Remy LeBeau. Why the Hell _he’s_ here, Steve doesn’t know.

“Mr Lehnsherr,” Steve says, standing gracefully to his feet, and he offers his hand. Erik watches him for just a moment, glancing down at Steve’s hand as if wondering if the two of them will soon begin to fight, but then he takes it. Erik’s grip is strong, and slightly forceful – it makes Steve bite back the urge to laugh.

“Captain Rogers,” Erik replies smoothly.

“Glad to see we’re all on such friendly terms,” Lorna says dryly, and she takes Steve’s hand – her grip is even tighter than her father’s. “Call me _Ms Dane_ at your peril.”

“Lorna,” Steve says. “Call me Steve.”

“What? No handshake for Remy?”

“We’ve met, like, twice,” Steve says.

“Ah, time for a kiss then!” Steve leans in, kissing Remy on both his cheeks – the French way – and leans back. Awkwardly, Remy laughs. “Oh, cher. I like you.”

“Erik,” Loki says smoothly, and he catches Erik’s hand in his own. In response to Erik’s hard grip, he sets his left hand neatly over Erik’s own, and Steve can see the slight stiffening of Erik’s spine at the subtle act of control. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you. Charles speaks of you so continuously.”

“I’m sure he does,” Erik replies, visibly disarmed, and he says, “A pleasure to meet you as well… Done with your attempt at world domination, are you?”

“Oh, quite finished. And yourself?” Erik blinks. For a long few moments, he and Loki hold each other’s gazes, each of their expressions cold and hard and holding a veneer of politeness, and then— Erik laughs. The sound is low, quiet, but undeniably genuine, and he sets his left hand gently on Loki’s shoulder for just a moment.

“You really do have a silver tongue,” he murmurs, and he neatly steps away, allowing Loki to introduce himself to Lorna. As Erik walks across the room, thanking Tommy for the cushion and moving slowly to his place at the head of the table, Steve watches as Pietro and Loki stand together. Although Pietro’s speaking too fast for Steve to understand, and his lips moving too fast for Steve to read, he’s apparently impressed, and Loki wraps his arm around Pietro’s shoulder for a moment, pulling him close in a half-hug.

 _I’ll sit between you_ , Loki murmurs, inaudibly, and Pietro nods his head.

At Wanda’s instruction, they each move to stand at the table, and Steve watches as Pietro says a few words to Billy, catching the younger man’s shoulder for a moment. Billy stands behind the chair beside Erik, with Teddy on his other side, and Loki sets his hands on the chair at Erik’s left hand, gesturing for Steve to settle beside him. Steve is in between Loki and Pietro, then – that’s fine.

They are standing for a reason. Steve lets the familiar sound of Hebrew wash over him as Pietro sings in easy, lilting Hebrew, reciting the kiddush over wine, and he watches as Pietro passes the silver cup to Lorna, who hesitates for a second before she takes a drink, than leaning to pass it to Billy, then to Erik.

When the blessing is over, each of them sits down, and Steve is amazed at the food Wanda’s made – parcels of chicken stuffed with vegetables and spice; an incredible lentil stew; spinach pies made with thick, flaky pastry… It’s good. It’s all _incredible_.

And it’s—

Funny.

With Pietro on one side of him, and Loki on the other, Steve is distinctly aware of how similar their table manners are, although Pietro (much like his nephew) eats much faster than Loki does. Each of them uses their cutlery with a delicate grace, always holding it _just so_ , and never dropping even a spot of food, never eating messily, always chewing with hyper-attentive grace and poise.

Erik notices Steve’s stifled smile, and he follows Steve’s gaze, looking between his son and Loki. Erik smiles himself.

“How are you occupying yourself these days, Loki?” Erik asks quietly. “I hear you have already drawn back from superheroism.”

“I’ve applied for a lecturing position at NYU,” Loki answers, taking a sip from his wine. “Honestly, they were rather excited merely to see my application, and I have some three hundred years’ experience in academia, so all looks favourable.”

“What would you be lecturing in?” Pietro asks, leaning forward.

“Oh, nothing too complicated. Applied astrophysics, theoretical mathematics, et cetera.”

“Nothing complicated,” Erik echoes, seeming amused. “How are you finding Earth?” Loki hesitates, seeming thoughtful. He draws his fingers through his hair, drawing it back over the shell of his ear, and Steve sees Erik’s gaze flit to the bar of silver that is pinned through it.

“It isn’t perfect,” Loki says, his tone measured. “But I grow more grateful for my position as the days pass me by. Recently, I was reunited with three of my children, who I never thought I would be able to see again, and I feel most… Most _humbled_ , by my experiences on Earth.”

“I saw the pictures,” Billy says quietly. “On Facebook. You must have been so happy, to finally get them free.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Loki whispers, his gaze momentarily far away. Steve reaches out, subtly taking Loki’s hand where it rests in his lap, and Loki glances at him, offering him a very small, slow smile. “You will understand, I’m certain, when you have children of your own, Billy, but it’s— It’s an immeasurable love, truly, the love one feels for one’s children.”

“Unspeakable,” Pietro agrees softly. “Ineffable.”

“And hard,” Erik says, finally. “One does one’s best, and it never feels sufficient.”

“Particularly when it isn’t one’s best,” Pietro says archly.

“You would know,” Erik replies.

“Okay,” Billy says hurriedly. “Let’s— Talk about something else.”

“This bread is wonderful, Wanda,” Erik says, carefully drawing another segment of the soda bread from the loaf for his stew.

“Pietro made it,” Wanda says, helplessly.

“It’s wonderful,” Loki repeats, firmly. “You must give me the recipe, Pietro.”

“And me,” Erik says quietly, almost forcefully in its awkward warmth. Uncomfortably, Pietro shifts in the seat beside Steve, and only relaxes when Billy and Teddy draw Erik into an in-depth conversation about some recent scandal in the Israeli cabinet.

“You okay?” Steve asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” Pietro says. Steve doesn’t see him drink it, but his wine glass goes abruptly from full to half-full.

“Cher,” Remy murmurs softly, and Steve sees him take Pietro’s hand in his own, his fingers drawing easy and gentle over the back of Pietro’s hand. Steve recalls, a few weeks back, when they’d all gone out to the Irish session, that Remy and Pietro had been out together, that the two of them had gone home together, but… For some reason, it only clicks that they’re _together_ right now. They wear matching bands of titanium on their ring fingers, each fashioned to hold an Ⓧ wrought in the metal instead of a gemstone. They’re subtle, simple, and they catch the shine of the candles…

Loki squeezes Steve’s hand, and Steve brings his cold fingers to his mouth, touching his lips to the backs of his knuckles. It’s strange, how comfortable he feels at this table: across from him, two young men content in a relationship, and then Pietro and Remy… Loki is staring at him, his lips parted, his eyes soft.

Steve feels himself shiver, and Loki turns away, joining the conversation with a snappy comment about the Israeli prime minister.

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**August 3 rd, 2012  
08:44PM**

“Are you ever going to get married?” Erik demands.

“I’ve _been_ married,” Pietro retorts. The two of them are standing chest to chest, and despite the slight lead Erik has in height, Pietro makes up for it by vibrating slightly, giving him an otherworldly and distinctly inhuman quality. Loki pretends to be listening to William, Theodore and Steve’s incredibly boring conversation about heroic morality, and keeps the majority of his attention to Pietro and Erik.

“You know very well what I mean,” Erik says. “You are _sixty-five_ years old, and you spend your days eternally alone – I only want for you to be happy, and—”

“Happy! Happy! That’s _rich_ , coming from you – and what of Wanda?”

“Wanda has children.”

“I have a daughter!”

“And where is she?” Loki hears Pietro’s cut-off sound of desperate frustration. “Even Lorna has brought someone this evening, Pietro, and…”

“Remy isn’t mine,” Lorna calls dryly from across the room. She, Wanda, Tommy and Remy are gathered around a game of Monopoly, at which Wanda seems to be dominating. Remy is sweating, his skin shining with it, but all of the others – even Theodore – are concentratedly ignoring the argument occurring across the room, as if they don’t hear the words being exchanged. It reminds Loki of his own childhood, arguing with his father as Mother and Thor said nothing, only ever interrupting if Loki began to cry, or if Father began to shout. “He’s Pietro’s.” Loki turns to look at Pietro, who is as stiff as a board, his hands clenched into tight fists in front of his chest, and then he turns to look at Erik’s face, which has fallen dramatically.

“Pietro,” he says softly. “You might have _told_ me.”

“Why should I tell you _anything_? You never ask. You have never once asked after my well-being, never once, not when Wanda and Lorna are right there! You give orders, and you pass judgement, but you don’t care,” Pietro says harshly. “What _should_ you care what—” Erik catches Pietro’s hand by the wrist as he waves his hand emphatically in the air, and Pietro lets out a sharp noise, surprised at having been grabbed. Erik’s eyes are not on Pietro’s alarmed expression, however, but are instead levelled at the engagement ring on his finger.

“How long?” Erik asks quietly.

“Two months,” Remy is slowly on his feet, the board left behind him – he has folded his cards and passed each of them to Wanda. He stands with his hands in the pockets of his waistcoat, and although his skin has a shining glow to it, his red eyes ablaze with uncertainty, he doesn’t back away from Erik. He stands beside Pietro, at his shoulder, and Loki can see the desperation in Erik’s eyes.

“My son,” Erik whispers.

“Don’t call me that,” Pietro says, nearly _shouts_. Erik _crumples_. For such a proud, broad-shouldered man, with such strength visible in him, it is most disarming to see, and Erik draws his hands back.

“Excuse me,” he says, slightly hoarsely. “I must take a moment.”

“Take an hour,” Pietro mutters, and Loki sees the regret pass over his face as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but Erik is already moving toward the door. Loki sees Wanda stand, but Loki raises his palm, moving to follow the other man himself, and he steps out of the apartment behind him, closing the door.

Erik is leaning heavily against the wall, gripping so tightly at the elbows of his suit jacket that his knuckles are turning white, and Loki conjures a chair for him with ease, gently pushing him to sit down. Erik drops heavily into the chair, his expression a mask of calm. His body shakes.

Loki reaches out, and he touches the arm of the chair: immediately, the two of them rest on a sea of thick, white cloud, a distance removed from New York and the confines of the apartment building, and Loki sees Erik look around, uncertainly.

“That we not be disturbed,” Loki says simply. “He doesn’t mean to be unkind to you – he is trying most fervently to let you into his life. I hope you realise that.”

“I do,” Erik says quietly. “You have children yourself?”

“Six, overall,” Loki murmurs, then adds, “I’ve lost two.”

“It’s a terrible thing, to lose a child. The worst heartbreak imaginable.” Loki can see from his expression that he speaks from experience, and he sees Erik’s hand draw hard over his own lips. His piercing eyes are softened by the well of tears, and Loki offers him a handkerchief – one that Erik takes with a murmured word of thanks. “He thinks I don’t love him. Do you know that? Do you know that he thinks I despise him?”

“He knows that you don’t,” Loki says quietly. It occurs to him how ironic it is that _he_ , of all people, should be offering such counsel, and yet— No. No, there is no irony here. Loki is as qualified as any to give advice upon this subject, and to listen to an individual in pain. “He merely believes that you look more kindly upon your daughters than you do him, and he is right to believe that, because it is true.” Erik stiffens, his hands clenching into fists.

“It must be very difficult,” Loki says, allowing his sympathy to weight heavily in his tone. “To look at such a stubborn, hard, and deeply unhappy man, and see your own reflection.” Erik’s composure breaks, and Loki watches in silence as a tear rolls down his cheek. He is breathing heavily, and he shakes his head, staring down at his own hands.

“Every time I meet him, I am made painfully aware of all that I have done to slight him, to harm him. It is so… _Difficult_ , to— He is so stubborn, and so biting, and so full to the brim with sarcasm, always with a sharp word on his tongue. He wears his pain as armour. I can’t look at him and not feel agony. I have broken him so many times that he is made up of jagged edges, and now I have the gall to show the pain when he cuts me, as if it is _his_ fault, and not my own.”

“You both have jagged edges,” Loki murmurs softly. “Let us not pretend, for Pietro’s sake, that you are a man without pain yourself.” He reaches out, slowly, and he sets his hand very gently on Erik’s shoulder, feeling the thick muscle beneath the fabric of his suit. “He loves you: he doesn’t mean to be cruel to you. And vice versa.”

“You really think that I love Lorna and Wanda more than him?” Erik asks, quietly. “He isn’t— He has always been in need of discipline, of…” _Manliness_ , Loki supplies the end of the question – he knows not if Erik is conscious of what he means, but it cuts Loki to the bone nonetheless. Within him he feels a raging storm, a turmoil: without, he displays quiet calm, as the water’s surface that hides a tumultuous current.

“I think you show your love for them in different ways,” Loki answers. “And to show them the hilt of the blade whilst you show Pietro its sharp edge is unkind, regardless of your intentions.” Erik sighs, quietly.

“When you phrase it in that way…” Erik glances at him, wiping hard at the tears in his eyes, and he says quietly, “For such a young man, you have a great deal of wisdom.”

“I’m not a young man,” Loki says quietly. “Much as you or your children, I am far older than I appear to be. Far, _far_ older, in my case.”

“The silver in your ear… It’s as if I can’t feel it,” Erik murmurs. “As if it is off-limits to me, somehow – as if it is _assur_. Wrong, forbidden.” Loki’s hand moves slowly up to the silver, and he feels its familiar cool beneath his fingers.

“You are just a magnekinetic,” Loki murmurs. “You have a natural ability to bend metals, to shift their atomic structure, and so on. But silver-smithing is one of my facets, one of my godly areas of expertise. Silver doesn’t just obey my command: it waits for it, eagerly, and runs through my very heart. For it to wait for your instruction, for it even to present itself to you, would be a confusion of my person, a blasphemy of my own self.”  Erik is staring at him, his eyes uncomprehending, and Loki loosely shrugs his shoulders. “That is the best way I can explain it,” he says simply, and he sits down upon the air. “You don’t touch him.”

“What do you mean?” Erik asks, his expression uncertain, and Loki tilts his head slowly to the side, examining Erik’s features.

“You never touch him. Don’t you notice? You hug your daughters, kiss their cheeks; you put your hand on Tommy’s shoulder or draw your hand through Billy’s hair… The most you will do with Pietro is stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder.” Erik leans back in his seat, his lips a thin line.

“He doesn’t want me to touch him.” He seems to believe it, and Loki feels his heart _ache_.

“Of course he does,” Loki whispers. “You think he wants to stand there, awkward and alone, as you assure his sisters that they are loved, assure his nephews of your affection, even his daughter? You think he isolates himself because he truly prefers his life that way? Then this is less, even, than cruelty: it is foolishness.” A long silence spans between them, and Loki looks out over the carpet of cloud they settle on, feeling its downy softness beneath their feet. “If I might make a suggestion?”

“Yes?” Erik asks, immediately – his tone is so eager.

“You ought speak to him of the Tanakh, and of the Talmud. He is confident of his faith where you are not, and it would be a comfortable neutral ground where you might speak upon your differences, whilst discovering your similarities.”

“Do you spend much time together? You and Pietro?”

“We speak often,” Loki murmurs. “It exhausts him, to spend so much time with those who cannot match his speed. I can understand him no matter how quickly he speaks, and that is very freeing for him, he who has so much to say, and so few who will listen.”

“I don’t listen to him enough,” Erik says.

“No,” Loki agrees. “You do not.”

“It’s very easy to talk to you,” Erik says, almost suspiciously. “Why is that?”

“I’m a priest,” Loki answers, his tone blunt and simple. Erik does not disbelieve him, or even question the answer: instead, he leans back in his seat slightly, and he looks Loki up and down, as if seeing him in a new light.

They talk for some time more.

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**August 3 rd, 2012  
09:24PM**

The door opens, and Steve watches as Erik re-enters the room. Loki maintains his distance from Erik, neatly closing the door behind them, and Steve watches as Erik moves across the room, to where Pietro is sitting at the dinner table with Remy, speaking seriously and quietly, and a little faster than is natural for the human ear to process. Immediately, he is on his feet, his hands spread in front of him—

And Erik hugs him.

Pietro freezes, wide-eyed and confused as he feels his father’s hands around his back, squeezing him tightly, and then he relaxes. Closing his eyes, he hugs Erik back just as tightly, and Steve looks to Lorna and Wanda, who are both open-mouthed and staring.

 _Well done_ , Wanda mouths to Loki, and Loki spreads his hands, as if to reply, _It was nothing_.

Loki slides down onto the sofa beside Steve, and Steve reaches up, dragging a loose strand of hair back from his face and tucking it behind his ear. Loki leans in, pressing their foreheads together for a moment, and then he draws away. “You okay?” Steve asks quietly.

“I think I offered good counsel,” Loki murmurs. Steve smiles.

“Yeah, I bet,” he agrees. “You didn’t miss much.”

**\-----** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅** **-** **✪** **-** **❅** **\-----**

**August 3 rd, 2012  
10:08PM**

Steve had been half-expecting Loki to make his excuses and head onto wherever he’d been before, but he doesn’t. After they say their goodbyes to each of the Maximoffs – Pietro hugs Loki tightly before he goes, to everyone’s great surprise – Loki walks back to the apartment with Steve, and slides into bed beside him.

“You’re a good man,” Steve murmurs quietly.

“No, I’m not,” Loki says.

“You’re trying, though.” There is a pause, and Steve looks at the bare silhouette of Loki he can make out in the dark of the room.

“Yes,” he says, finally.

Steve falls asleep with Loki’s weight pleasant and cool upon his chest. He dreams that Erik Lehnsherr plays a game of Monopoly with Odin, and wins.


	7. Chapter 7

**August 4** th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York **  
** **6:57AM**

Steve leans back with a quiet groan, and Loki’s fingers dig a little more into his scalp, lathering the shampoo into the cropped-short hair. Hot water showers down on both of them, and Steve can’t help but lean in whenever Loki’s hands move over his body. He had been surprised when Loki had climbed into the shower after him – the guy says he hates them at any available opportunity – but Loki seems to be taking the time to concentrate on washing _Steve’s_ body.

He brings the sponge dedicatedly over Steve’s chest, scrubbing at the sweat from Steve’s morning run, and Steve laughs a little at his concentrated expression.

“You’ve done this before,” Steve says.

“I was an attendant to the gladiators on Exo,” Loki murmurs. “For some thirty years.”

“How old were you?”

“Quite young,” Loki says mildly, dragging the sponge over the hollow of Steve’s hip, and he can’t help the way he bucks at the touch to the sensitive skin. “I was around one thousand years old… I was so scolded when I returned home to Asgard that on the very Bifrost I turned on my heel and went away again.”

“Where did you go?”

“To Jötunheimr,” Loki answers. As he drops slowly to his knees, beginning to drag the sponge over Steve’s thighs, his gaze is momentarily far away. “I miscalculated the dimensional transitway – a spell to which I was new, and choked on – and landed in the freezing waters of the Jut sea. And there I saw her, standing as tall as…” The sponge stops on Steve’s knee, and for a second, Loki is frozen, water washing over his back and through his wet hair, his expression slack. What must it be like for him, Steve wonders, to think of his wife? Two thousand years is a long time, but to be widowed is hard. _Damn_ hard. Then, he shakes his head, and says, “As I was saying, I attended the gladiators, ordinarily the champion at the time. I would clean their armour, run errands, serve them in the baths… In the bedchamber.” Steve’s breath hitches in his throat, and Loki looks up at him. The water runs in rivulets down the sides of his temples, dripping down his long nose, and he looks like one of the paintings they’d seen in the museum yesterday.

“The bedchamber?” Steve repeats. “You mean you…”

“Yes,” Loki murmurs, and he drags the sponge in slow circles over the side of Steve’s calf, and Steve swallows.

“But you didn’t— You mean, like a hooker?” Loki laughs.

“No,” he says, visibly amused. “No, no, like… Like a _consort_.” Loki smiles with memory, and he chuckles quietly as his fingers dance up the back of Steve’s calf, making him shiver. The skin is strangely sensitive, and he can feel the muscles there twitch as Loki touches them. “In the hierarchy of the arena, I was the highest-ranking member of the staff, barring the accountant and the quartermaster. I was looked upon with great admiration by the people – even by the aristocracy.”

“But you… You had sex with them?” Loki nods. “Didn’t that… Feel weird?”

“No,” Loki says, shrugging his shoulders. “Sex is… It is a way of showing affection between lovers, yes, certainly. But it is both more and less than that. It is a resource; it is a service. It is an act of power, an unbalancing of dynamics, or a rebalancing. It is vital, for some species – they will die without it.” Loki leans up, dragging his mouth over the side of Steve’s thigh, and Steve inhales, feeling his shoulders hit against the cold tile. “It felt good,” Loki murmurs. His fingers are cool against Steve’s thighs, at odds with the hot water running over his hands, and Steve grunts as Loki presses his nose into the thatch of blond hair around his groin, his breath freezing where it ghosts over Steve’s cock. “To be of service to a mighty warrior. To feel their muscles under my hands, to taste their skin once I had washed the blood and sweat and dirt away. To be _prized_ , and delighted in – a little softness after a hard day’s play at war.”

Loki’s tongue flicks over the head of Steve’s cock, and Steve groans, tangling his hand in Loki’s hair. “Harder,” Loki mutters, and Steve grips at it, so tightly he can see Loki gasp before he puts his mouth to work. He groans as Loki’s lips part around the head of his cock, the flat of his tongue playing easily over the bundle of nerves at the base of his head, and he _sucks_. Steve can’t help the way his hips stutter forward, and he hears Loki choke – immediately he tries to draw away, but Loki’s hand locks around his wrist, and he looks at Steve with pleading eyes.

 _“I like that_ ,” says a voice, seiðr-full and disembodied. _“You can be rough. Fuck my throat, if you want to.”_ Steve hesitates. He and Loki have had rough sex before, but fucking him in the throat, feeling him _gag_ —

“You sure?”

“ _Positive_.” Steve stares down at Loki, his mouth spread open by the thickness of Steve’s cock, and experimentally, he shifts his hips. Loki’s expression slackens, and Steve feels his mouth as he leans in closer, his tongue cool against the base of Steve’s cock as he tries to take a little bit more… He can’t quite manage it. Two or three inches still remain, and Steve hesitates, just for a second—

And then he thrusts forward. Loki lets out a soft, hoarse groan, but he opens his mouth wider, relaxes his throat, taking Steve right to the root. Steve lets out a groan of sound at the cool wetness enveloping him, but most of all at Loki’s face, his blue eyes fixed on Steve’s. his lips stretched taut, and Loki _moans_. It’s loud and genuine and sloppy, as if this is all Loki’s ever wanted, and Steve grasps at his hair a little tighter, slowly drawing his hips back before snapping them forward. Loki looks like he might just _melt_ , whimpering around the prick in his mouth, his lips pressed right against the base of Steve’s cock, and Steve starts to fuck his mouth.

It’s weird. It’s different to a blowjob, different to the sensation of the lips and tongue playing over the head of his cock as hands play over the shaft; it’s different to actually _fucking_ Loki. He feels the difference between Loki’s tongue and the swallow of his throat, feels his lips around the base of Steve’s cock, and when he _thrusts_ , God, he can feel Loki desperately gag and gasp, see Loki’s eyes watering, and see the shining _pleasure_ in his eyes—

Steve feels his balls draw up tight, feels his cock pulse, and Loki swallows greedily, like he’s unwilling to spill even a _drop_. Steve can feel his throat working, and when Loki finally draws back, it’s with a quiet exhalation, leaning into Steve’s hand.

“How did that make you feel?” Steve asks, reflexively.

Loki laughs.

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**August 4** th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York **  
** **7:22AM**

“What’s the average Asgardian lifespan?” Steve asks. He tries to keep his tone casual, and Loki turns to look at him, his expression measured and thoughtful.

“Why do you ask?” he says, equally casually. As he speaks, he takes a slow sip of rich, dark coffee that he won’t let himself enjoy too often – he says that he doesn’t want to get too reliant on caffeine, but Steve suspects it’s more to do with denying himself too much pleasure, something Loki tends not to admit to, but seems to do with nearly everything.

“Curiosity.”

“Curiosity,” Loki echoes. “Very well. The average Æsir lives for two hundred years, thereabouts. That lifespan is multiplied by a factor of around fifty with the introduction of the peculiar seiðr of Iðunn’s golden orchard.”

“Ten thousand years,” Steve says softly. “Shit.”

“Ten thousand years,” Loki agrees.

“And you were… How old is an adult? How long were you a child?”

“We are considered adults when we reach our nine hundredth name day,” Loki says. He is retaining that strange, mild tone, as if they are only talking about the weather. “The equivalent of _twenty_.”

“So for every year of my childhood,” Steve says quietly. “You were a child for forty-five.” Loki stays very still for a long few moments, watching Steve with an uncertainty shining in his eyes, and Steve reaches up, dragging his palm over the side of his jaw. “That’s not— I don’t think it’s weird. I think you kinda had enough time, growing up, feeling like you weird compared to everybody else. You’re not weird just ‘cause you’re older. I don’t think that you’re… That you’re strange, or creepy, or scary.”

Loki looks genuinely touched. He steps closer, touching the side of Steve’s shoulder and looking down at him where he sits at the kitchen table, and he says in a very soft voice – so soft Steve can barely hear it – “I don’t think you’re infallible. And I… In the most literal sense, you are _my captain_ , but you are not my commander. Outside of a mission setting, I will neither follow your orders nor blindly follow your command. I trust you. And because I trust you – I _vow_ to you – I shall make my disagreements known, when we run into them.” Steve feels a heat tingle in his chest, and he puts his hand over Loki’s. “I’m going to Mount Olympus today,” Loki says.

“Mount Olympus?” Steve repeats. “Like—Greece?”

“Greece, yes.”

“Can I come?” Loki hesitates, and for a moment Steve thinks he sees the slightest bit of fear, mingled with uncertainty… But why would he feel fear over something like this? What’s frightening about Olympus that isn’t frightening about Asgard?

“If you want to,” Loki says.

“If I—” Steve cuts himself off to laugh. “Yeah, Loki. You’re heading to a mythical place to meet mythical people, I kinda wanna come.” Loki smiles, a little awkwardly, and Steve grabs him by the hip, pulling him closer. Loki lands heavily in Steve’s lap, weighing down his thighs, and Steve sets his hands loosely on Loki’s waist. “When are you gonna head to Jötunheimr?” Loki inhales slowly, as if taking the moment to fill his lungs entirely, and then he exhales, his resolve visibly strengthening.

“Tomorrow.” Tomorrow? _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow, Loki is going to Jötunheimr… “I want to speak to Dionysus, and I would see Plouton before he returns to the underworld – he is usually above ground during August, helping his wife ready herself to leave.”

“Plouton?” Steve repeats.

“You call him Hades,” Loki says. Steve laughs a little, quietly. It’s… Yeah. It’s weird, sometimes, talking to Loki, wondering exactly what it could have been _like_ growing up on Asgard – it had been a beautiful city, but to be there for three thousand years? No wonder Loki had taken so much time to travel elsewhere. And then, even _weirder_ , to factor in that there are people like Hades – the real, actual, Ancient Greek Hades… That exist.

Yeah. That’s—

That’s something.

“You mentioned angels, the other day,” Steve murmurs. “That— I didn’t know angels were real.”

“The realm of Heven is distant indeed,” Loki murmurs, and he turns in Steve’s lap, forming a three-dimensional diagram of shining, golden threads, letting the seiðr hover on the air. Steve recognises the familiar, disc-shaped world of Asgard, and he watches as the Yggdrasil forms roots and wide branches, the different planets and realms forming around it. Steve reaches out, and he touches the small globe of Jötunheimr. It is cold to the touch, and he shivers. “Once upon a time, there were not nine Realms, but ten.” A planet swathed in mist and cloud forms at the very top of the tree, bathed in golden light.

“What happened?” Steve asks. His hand is on Loki’s lower back, tracing his spine through the blue fabric of his shirt, but Loki doesn’t seem to mind – he leans into it, enjoys it.

“Heven declared war upon Asgard. I know not the specifics – it was not so far into Odin’s rule, and no one upon Asgard will speak of it except in the most hushed tones. I know of it from cobbled together snatches of conversation from elders of Nidavellir. Odin cast the realm of Heven from the natural flow of magic upon the Yggdrasil, and sent them unto the void.” Loki seems sad, but in a distant way, and he turns to Steve, gently cupping his cheek. “I used to be so frightened that Thor would become like our father. Not in his magic, nor his cunning, but in his… He has such rage within him. It is the only emotion he knows how best to feel.”

“Used to,” Steve repeats. “He’s better now, right?” Loki nods.

“But he isn’t ready to be king yet,” he decides. “Not by a long shot.”

“Will he ever be ready?” Loki laughs, quietly, and then his eyes turn hard.

“I hope so. For his sake.” It is one of the most truly ominous things Loki has ever said to him, and Steve is thrown into awareness as he had been when he had first seen Geren of the Highwastes: Loki is not human, is not mortal, is godly, and divine, and incalcuably _massive_ despite the body he inhabits.

“We should get ready to go,” Steve says.

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 **August 4** th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York  
8:15AM

Loki stands before the mirror, his lips pressed loosely together, and he looks at his own face. He reaches up, touching the small beard that sprouts from his chin, and he takes in the brightness of his red hair, the way it comes in a thick wave about his head, curly and heavy, more so even than his own hair. His eyes are mismatched: one is bright green and the other brown, and the brown has a larger pupil than the other; Loki’s nose is more hooked than before, and his chin is sharp and prominent, only emphasised by the beard.

“That’s your god-face, right?” Steve asks. “The Loki-face?” Loki turns to look at him, and he feels himself smile. Is there a mortal, he wonders, that would pick up the language so easily, so swiftly? When even other immortals stumble over Loki’s happenstance?

“Yes,” Loki says. His voice is higher like this, harsh and chittering like the buzz of the cicada; Loki is taller, too, and Steve must look _up_ at his face. After a moment, Steve reaches up, and Loki feels the way his fingers trace the freckles smattered over his nose and his cheeks, then touch the dappled scars on the flesh.

“You’re so warm,” Steve murmurs, his nose wrinkling slightly, and Loki feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest – rearranged, now, so that it stands just beneath his breastbone, as an Æsir heart should. Steve looks unsettled, _uncomfortable_ with the idea of Loki as warm-blooded – could he truly have such affection for the cold blood that runs through his un-Æsir veins? Really?

Loki turns his head, and he presses a kiss to Steve’s palm. Steve swallows. “Will they— You said that, uh, that the Æsir aren’t really okay with, uh, with men… How are the Olympians?”

“They won’t bat an eye,” Loki promises. “Every god there is a pioneer of homosexuality.” Steve laughs, and he reaches a little lower. Loki watches his face as he feels the brown fabric of Loki’s robe, tracing over the hard, studded leather of his outer armour.

“Do you— It’s weird. I know that it’s you, and it _feels_ like you—” _Feels like?_ That’s—That’s interesting. Hm. “But, you know, it doesn’t seem like it’s the same as being a different _person_. Won’t they recognise you, with your regular face?”

“Oh, they would recognise me,” Loki says. “Thor and I visited Olympus many times as children. But as I first return to the mountain’s sphere, I need them to look at me and recognise me as a fellow divinity, another god, not as one of the former princes of Asgard. Nor as the little boy that ran through Hephaestus’ forge or watched Athene weave, that ever visited Olympus and never wanted to go home.” Steve nods, slowly, and Loki glances at that which he has set on – a white shirt, crisp and clean, and a suit-jacket of deep blue to offset light-coloured trousers. No tie – it’s better without a tie. Formal, easy. Loki looks at the chain around Steve’s neck, the Statue of Liberty shining against his collarbone… “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Steve murmurs. Loki takes hold of Steve’s hands, and he feels for the thread of seiðr, setting it precisely where he wishes it to be at the entrance of Mount Olympus, and he feels the universe shift around them.

The change of energy is immediately. He adjusts to Olympus’ odd gravity, feeling it settle upon his skin, and then he releases Steve’s hands, looking up to the blue skies above them. A sun shines brightly down on them, and glittering in the distance Loki can see stars on every side, shining like loops of silver where the edges of the blue sky darken to purple.

“Take my arm,” Loki says, proffering it, and Steve hesitates for a second before looping his hand through Loki’s elbow. They fall into step together, and Loki looks over the paths, taking in the orderly streets, neatly arranged, and the _temples_ … Loki likes the Greek temples. They are of mixed design, depending on the architecture each of the gods most favours, but Loki so loves the appearance of every one of them, so adores the shining white marble. “There is the Hall of Athene – therein lie the ancient archives, a library the like of which you’ve never witnessed.”

“Bigger than your library?” Steve asks.

“ _Much_ ,” Loki says, and Steve chuckles. “And there, that is the Hall of Hephaestus. Whenever we visited Olympus, as children, I could rarely be torn from his side at the Forge. I’ve always loved forges.” Loki leads them down a wide street, away from the main part of the city, and he can hear music and cheering – it is August, after all.

The Pantheon Hall – the greatest hall of Olympus, where each of the gods spends the majority of their time during festival and wonder, is absolutely gigantic, and it is rivalled only by the amphitheatre it adjoins. The amphitheatre, swarming with a hundred thousand people, but Loki can see the production is not to begin for another two hours at least – they are here to socialise, and there are no gods among them.

“Come,” Loki murmurs, and they step toward Pantheon Hall, looking up the mighty steps of the great marble building.

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**August 4** th, 2012  
Mount Olympus **  
** **8:30AM**

Steve is kind of in awe.

The building itself is massive. Probably the biggest marble building he’s ever seen – he’s seen the Parthenon in Athens, and this building has to be nearly five times the size of it. It’s obscenely huge, and for just a moment, he wonders if the Olympians are twice the size of humans and Æsir, just to make up for the space—

They’re not. Many of them are tall, though: like Loki in his own god-form, many of them are closer to seven feet tall than to six feet, and it’s incredible, looking around and seeing so many people who’re easily so tall. They wear flowing chiffons, and Steve had vaguely expected everybody to be in plain white, but that isn’t the case at all: the robes are made of all kinds of colours, bright and catching the light, in reds and pinks and oranges; in yellows and soft browns; in blues and greens and greys. It’s incredible.

Steve wants to _paint_ it.

“My lady Hera,” Loki says, and a woman turns. She wears a high, cylindrical crown of shining gold, and her dark hair cascades over her sun-kissed shoulders. She is easily a few inches taller than Loki, even in the form he inhabits, and her features are queenly and imperious: Steve can see the frown lines around her lips, but when her hazel eyes settle on Loki, they widen. “What a pleasure to see you, after so many years.” Loki releases Steve momentarily to perform an artful, ridiculous bow, and Steve awkwardly bows his own head, uncertain as to the protocol.

“ _Loki_ ,” Hera says, and immediately, she comes forward. Steve watches as she hugs him, pressing kisses to both his cheeks, joy showing on her serious features, and she calls over Loki’s shoulder, “Zeus!”

Zeus is a giant. He is easily eight feet tall at the shoulder, and he looks down at Loki with a bright grin on his face. He has a huge beard and long, white hair that is dappled in places with auburn, and he does as Hera did, grabbing Loki bodily and kissing each of his cheeks. Loki is smiling, and he takes a step back, setting his hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“This is my consort, Steven Rogers: Captain America.” Hera kisses him first, and her mouth is warm against the sides of his cheeks; Zeus is equally affectionate, and just like that, they’re spanning the room.

The thing about the Asgardians… There hadn’t been that many of them. Sure, there had been a decent group, but most of them were spread around, and only a handful, Steve had recognised. But the Olympians… There are dozens of them, dozens on dozens, and they all recognise Loki and greet him with kisses on the cheek. Some of them wind hands in his hair, catching errant curls of red and playing with them; others tug on his beard or pat his shoulders and hips; others sling their arms around his neck. The Æsir touch one another, but it’s normally short and well-defined, unless two people are intimately involved, from what Steve can tell – the Olympians, they touch one another, and touch Loki, freely and with ease and warmth.

 “ _Consort_?” Steve asks in an undertone, as Loki points out a trio of hunting women. Loki hesitates for a moment, and Steve can see that he’s holding something back: he grips Steve’s arm the slightest bit harder.

“We’re on their mountain: we use their language. Besides, mortals on Olympus— Brother,” Loki says, interrupting himself, and Steve whips his head around to see Thor— But it isn’t him. He’s a young man, who looks like he’s barely past his twenties. His skin is has a warm, golden undertone, but is a pale white, and he wears a yellow chiffon: on his head, there is a white cap with feathers sprouting from its sides, and his winged sandals are laced all the way up to his knee. He is a little shorter than Steve himself, his body lightly muscled and intended for gymnastics…

“Brother,” Hermes replies. They don’t kiss one another: instead, when Loki puts out his hand, Hermes grasps his forearm, as if the both of them are Æsir. They stand like so for nearly ten seconds, staring one another in the eyes, and then Hermes lets go. He turns his gaze on Steve, and Steve is astonished by the colour of his eyes: they are sky blue, but in the distance of his irises, Steve could swear he sees clouds passing by. “Captain America… I recall you. You’re older than you look. We met in France, once.”

“Did we?” Hermes smiles, and Steve can see Loki’s eyes harden.

“I delivered you a letter,” Hermes says warmly, and he takes a slow step forward, his lips quirking into a smile. The look in Loki’s eyes is swiftly becoming dangerous, and Steve furrows his brow slightly.

“Thanks,” Steve says shortly. Hermes doesn’t take the hint, and he comes very close, until he’s just half a foot away from Steve, looking up into his face.

“You’re just as handsome as you were then,” Hermes murmurs. “They should put you on stamps.”

“They do,” Loki says darkly. “Take a step back, Hermes, or learn which of us is a god of petty assault, and which is a god of death.” Hermes freezes. Steve can see the look in his cloudy eyes, see the way his jaw twitches, see the way his lips twist. Loki looks at him with unabashed loathing in his eyes, and Steve takes the moment to walk past him, taking Loki’s arm.

They walk across the room together, where a group of men and women are kneeling around a guy with a long, dark beard that is turning grey in paces, and long hair. On the crown of his head, some of his hair is beginning to thin, and he has eyes that are a dark, deep colour – they aren’t brown. They’re the colour of wine. He has a crown of grape leaves woven through his hair, and he is speaking at length, telling some story that holds his audience enraptured.

“What was that about?” Steve asks, quietly. “With Hermes? You called him brother.”

“We are brothers,” Loki mutters. “Tricksters, we host the same energy, we draw from the same pool – it is much like sharing blood. I draw from that pool threefold, but I am also… Wrong. Different. Unlike most tricksters, I have faces that thrive on order instead of chaos; I am just as effective amidst careful rule of order as I might be anarchy.”

“Threefold,” Steve repeats, and he tilts his head, thinking through the folders he had read through when Loki had received he had other… People. That he _was_ other people. And how many? Steve isn’t certain. He’s so many gods, but how many _people_? How many selves does Loki have holed up inside him? “So that’s across Loki… Then Ixtar. And he – you – rights petty injustices. And Guril Yair, she’s a trickster too, isn’t she? She’s a patron of thieves.” Loki is smiling at him. It’s a small smile, but there’s a great deal of affection in it, and Steve can see the shine of mischief in Loki’s mismatched eyes, distant, but growing. “What? You study me, I study you.”

“I study you,” Loki admits, freely. The bearded man finishes his story, and then he stands. His chiffon is a deep, dark purple, and he moves forward very slowly, looking at Loki with a quirk of his lips showing easy on his wine-stained lips. “Pretending yourself an elder, are you?”

“It is _not_ a pretense.” The man’s voice is dark and rich, coming from deep in his chest. His eyes turn to Steve, and immediately, they flit from Steve’s face down the length of his chest, his legs, his shining shoes. “You’re _beautiful_. What’s he paying you?” Loki laughs, and he shoves the god in the chest: the man stumbles back slightly, and it’s plain at a glance that Loki is far, _far_ stronger than he is, but there seems to be no bad blood about it. “My name is Dionysus, young man.”

“Steve Rogers.” He puts out a hand to shake, and Dionysus _scoffs_ before he leans in, kissing each of Steve’s cheeks. Steve can smell the wine on him, but it’s a distant undercurrent to the other scents – the scent of dry ground after rain, the scent of sex, a sweet, cologne-like scent, and distantly, beneath it all, the tang of blood.

Steve is breathless when he pulls back, and immediately, Dionysus leans into give Loki the same treatment – he doesn’t stop after two kisses. Loki laughs when he plants a fourth, laughs harder when he tries the fifth, and on the sixth he pulls at a pin at Dionysus’ shoulder: the chiffon drops in one easy movement, and Steve averts his eyes from the thatch of curly, dark hair between Dionysus’ legs.

“You scoundrel,” Dionysus proclaims, as if pronouncing Loki the winner of some unexpected challenge, and Loki draws away. “How long will you be here, brother?”

“Just a day. Tomorrow I sail to Jötunheimr.” Something changes in Dionysus’ face. His jolly charm fades and is replaced with a quiet understanding, a melancholy: he gently pats Loki’s face, and Loki allows it. “You knew.”

“I never _knew_. I suspected. I guessed you a Dökkálf, at first, but any of us could tell you weren’t Æsir. Who are you here for?” Steve inhales, slowly, taking that in – _any of us_. What, all these people knew, just like the Asgardians had, that Loki was never Æsir? Christ, how many people were _keeping_ this secret?

“Plouton.” Dionysus scoffs, quietly.

“Always Plouton. Never me.”

“Always you as well,” Loki promises, softly, and then he looks to Steve.

“Is he here? I don’t— I don’t see a guy that looks like he might be the god of the underworld, but I don’t really know what they look like.”

“Plouton is here but for twenty-one days of the year,” Dionysus says. “The same twenty-one days, every time. And as he won’t spend a single one of them with a roof over his head, not whilst he can help it. He won’t even come inside for meals.”

“He deserves some sunshine, while he has it.”

“He takes sunshine with him whenever he descends once more,” Dionysus mutters, and Loki exhales, quietly.

“I’ll speak to you, later. I’ll tell a story.”

“Take that face off,” Dionysus advises. “He’s never liked it.” Loki nods for Steve to follow him, and the two of them move off through another exit from the Pantheon Hall, out into a garden. In neat, well-kept rows, dozens of different sorts of fruit-bearing trees come high from the ground, and Steve looks at them with fascination. Cherries, oranges, apples, peaches, plums…

Steve watches as Loki’s skin fades away. He shortens, and the freckles and scars fade away, their constellations giving way to smooth, white skin, and his hair dark. The silver glints at his ear, and Steve had been expecting a Midgardian suit, but instead, he takes on something more similar to what the Greeks are wearing: long, flowing robes of black, embroidered all over with swirls of shining blue fabric, the sleeves wide-cuffed and hanging down. The neckline _plunges_ , showing a strip of flesh that comes down to Loki’s mid-chest, and Steve is spellbound as he sees the silver chain that hangs around his neck.

“I’ve not seen that one before.”

“He gave it to me when I was a child,” Loki murmurs, and he draws up the pendant, showing it. The coin is made of silver that is shined to a polish, and is thinner than Steve would expect, not so heavy – when Steve takes it in his hand, feeling the cool of the metal under his touch. The coin is set on one side with a figure of a man on a throne, his expression grim and grave. An open coffer of coin shows a great deal of money pouring on the ground beside him, and sat atop the pile is a dog with three heads, two of them sleeping and the other with a watchful eye on his master. When Steve turns the coin over, he is astonished to find that it is gold instead of silver. A woman smiles in a throne of her own, a bouquet of flowers in her lap, and he drags his thumb over the metal. “Are you familiar with the mythology? Of the coin? This is Charon’s obol.”

“It’s… You pay the boatman, right? On the Styx, to get to the underworld?” Loki nods. “But you— You wouldn’t go there, right? When you die?”

“I was a child,” Loki murmurs. “The equivale—” Steve puts his hand on Loki’s arm, and Loki stops himself, then smiles. “I was some years past my two hundred and fiftieth year. We had come toward the end of August, for three days, and I was so excited to see Plouton again that I sobbed when I realised he was leaving on the very day that we arrived. I clutched at Persephone’s skirts, for I was frightened to cry in front of _Hades_ himself – although I adored him, even then, I was scared that like the men of Asgard, he would scold me for crying so easily. And Persephone lifted me in her arms, made me a crown of harvest wheat, and took me to Plouton, who was standing at the bridge, ready to go.

 _“He is crying,”_ she said. “ _For the loss of you.”_ I will never forget his face, in that moment. Hades is a hard man: he believes in the rule of order and the rule of law… It is why he so often has issues with Dionysus and Hermes each, for they will skirt any law they choose if it suits them, but I wasn’t a god then, and certainly not a trickster – I was just a boy. He looked at me with shock and _surprise_ on his face, as if he couldn’t believe a child was crying over him, and immediately he moved forward, opening his arms. He was cold to the touch, as cold as steel, and I hugged him as tightly as I dared, sobbing into the fabric of his himation.

“ _Why are you crying, child?”_ he asked. _“I am not so far away.”_

 _“But I could never visit you, where you are bound to go,”_ I replied. _“Even in death, I shall be set upon another path.”_ And he stared down at me with some uncertainty – I was a very morbid child, desperately concerned with my own mortality, and I think that rather took him by surprise. So he held me against his side, and he crouched to the ground, his fingers to the earth, and the earth bore fruit for him: silver and gold each bled from the ground at his behest, and I was so fascinated at the way the metal moulded itself beneath his magic that I forgot to cry.

He pressed the obol into my hands, and he said, “ _There. Now if you should ever visit me, you shall have payment for Charon.”_

And I said, _“But the living must not tread in the realm of the dead.”_

And he replied, “ _Ah, but if you truly have need of me, if you come to my kingdom with no greed in your heart, and merely an ache to see an old friend, I shall forgive it all.”_ My mother had it put on a chain for me, that I might wear it as I chose… I barely took it off, as a child.”

“And you never used it,” Steve says softly.

“He used it a hundred times,” says a voice from behind them. Steve turns, and he looks at Plouton. Plouton is tall and broad-shouldered, only a few inches shorter than Zeus, and his skin is a rich, dark brown. In his dark eyes there are glints of silver. His beard is neatly combed, hanging in flowing, rich curls down toward his neck, and he wears silver around his neck and at his fingers. Steve leans back slightly when he sees him, taking in the shape of his robes, and distantly, he recalls Loki’s memories of the Ancient-Loki, of the way he dresses… “There was nearly two months one winter when I could not tread in my own thronehall without tripping over his wold-be corpse.”

“We never minded,” says the woman beside him. Persephone is older than Steve had expected. In the myths, he’s always heard her described as a young woman, but she isn’t that young, not really – she’s younger than Plouton, sure, but she looks like she’s in her late thirties, early forties where Plouton has reached his sixties. In her dark, golden hair, a few threads of grey are beginning to show, and Loki moves to greet them both. Persephone kisses his cheeks, and Plouton puts his massive hands on either side of Loki’s neck before he leans right down, their noses brushing together, their foreheads—

Steve smiles. He steps forward, slowly, and he looks up at Persephone as she steps closer to him. Flowers bloom in the grass where she walks, and when she touches Steve’s shoulder, he feels as if he is standing in a patch of sunlight. “You must be Steven,” she says softly. How does she know? “You’re very handsome, young man. How find you Olympus?”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Steve says. It’s the first time, it occurs to him, that anybody’s asked him what he thinks of the world around him – the first time, actually, that somebody seems to have looked at him as a person instead of just a guy at Loki’s side. “It’s— It’s beautiful. Nicer than Asgard.” Plouton laughs, the sound rich and earthy.

“I like him, Loki,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through Loki’s hair, slinging an easy hand over his shoulder, and Loki _smiles_ , leaning into the older man’s side. “We heard that you went to Asgard with him, when he unchained his children.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says.

“Were you frightened?” It occurs to Steve that that’s a strange question to ask, and he leans back slightly. Persephone’s hand is still a warm glow against his arm, and he considers the question as he looks between Plouton’s serious expression, and Persephone’s quietly indulgent smile – although whether she’s indulging Steve or her husband, he can’t tell.

“Sure, I guess,” Steve says. “I didn’t know what the Hell he was doing – he told me it was important, and I believed him.” Plouton watches him for a long few moments, his grave features full of quiet comprehension, quiet understanding. When he smiles, this time, Steve can see the glint of silver in his mouth, where a few of his teeth have been capped in metal – and once again, he thinks of the Ancient-Loki.

“Persephone, my light,” Plouton murmurs. “Take Steven inside. Loki and I have much to discuss.”

Loki leans in, and he drags his lips over Steve’s mouth: Steve is too surprised to draw away, leaning into the cool of Loki’s tongue and the magic that sweeps from Loki’s tongue to Steve’s own, but when Loki draws away, his gaze is serious. “Stay close to Persephone, or Dionysus. Ares and Athene will delight in your company, too, if you wish it – you will know them by the armour they wear, but do not let either of them have you alone.” There’s an intensity in his eyes, the fear in full bloom now, and Steve furrows his brow.

“Stay away from Hermes too, right?” Steve asks. “He’s dangerous.”

“He—” Loki hesitates, and then he says, “They’re _all_ dangerous. You’re a mortal, that’s… It’s more complicated than on Asgard. You aren’t a person to them: you are meat, chattel. You’re a plaything, in their eyes. That is why I called you my _consort_ – it marks you as mine, marks you as something not to be touched, but it doesn’t… It won’t raise you to a _person_ , in their eyes.” Steve feels a bitter taste on his tongue – it isn’t fear, but anger, and distaste… He glances to Persephone, whose expression is serious. “Do not take bets, or wagers. If somebody says something you disagree with, do not challenge them, not unless they ask for your opinion – and even then, Steven, this is no place for your wit.”

“So don’t act like a person, then,” Steve says, darkly. “Act like I’m just a handsome thing you own.” Just like being in the army, before he got into the war – just like trailing from one dumb town to the next, to _thunderous_ applause. Loki recoils as if Steve has _struck_ him.

“Steven—”

“No,” Loki says, interrupting Plouton before he can speak. Loki’s expression is _tortured_ , and he bites down on his lower lip. “No, no, he’s right. I oughtn’t have brought you here. It’s too dangerous. We should go. I’ll take you back to Brooklyn, I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to _go_ ,” Steve says, catching Loki’s hand. “Loki, this is… I’m angry that they think that way. But this is _Mount Olympus_. You have any idea how exciting that is for me? Can’t I— Is there no way that I can just… Be normal? If I wore the uniform—”

“The uniform is just a uniform,” Persephone murmurs. “Stay with me, Steven, or with Dionysus. We’ll keep you safe.”

“I don’t like to be protected.” Helplessly, Loki stares at him, uncertain.

“Would you rather die?” Plouton asks. Steve presses his lips together, and he squeezes Loki’s hand.

“I’ll be fine,” he promises, and Loki slowly nods his head. Steve lets Persephone take his arm, and they walk slowly back to the entrance of the Pantheon Hall. Of course he was scared. Of _course_ he was scared, and— Steve had been excited. “He didn’t want to hurt my feelings,” Steve mutters. “He didn’t want to tell me the truth, because he knew I’d hate it.”

“Loki knows better than anyone how sweet deception can be, and how much the truth can hurt. Plouton never tells lies,” Persephone murmurs quietly. “But sometimes, I wish he would.” She brushes a strand of hair back from Steve’s face, the motion quietly maternal, and Steve exhales, slowly. “He looks at you… It is rare that Loki shows such devotion. He is not like most men of Asgard, you know – most of them love freely, easily. Loki will devote himself to very few.”

“I know,” Steve murmurs. “I know. You know— You do know, right? That he’s not of Asgard, anymore?”

“Hermes brought the news as soon as he had wind of it,” Persephone says softly. “Loki… He has withstood the likes of which most Olympians could never dream of in their wildest nightmares. He’s well-liked here.”

“But not as well liked as Thor?” Persephone’s smile is sad.

“Perhaps not,” she agrees quietly. “But Loki has his friends here. Dio would die for him— Well, I suppose that means little coming from him: he is ever and anon a figure of rebirth, dying and returning to life. But there is very little Dionysus wouldn’t do for him, or vice versa. And he was always welcome in Hades, always… Hephaestus has a soft spot for Loki as well, and Aphrodite loves him for loving her husband. It was very hard for him, as a boy. He never knew what made him so different to the Æsir, and many of us _knew_ , but… It wasn’t our secret to tell. To tell him would have been to dash his dreams to pieces.”

“You said he doesn’t lie. Plouton. Didn’t he know the secret too?” Persephone’s soft smile says it all.

“There are few rules Plouton wouldn’t bend for Loki’s sake,” Persephone murmurs quietly. “And there are few rules Loki wouldn’t follow if Plouton asked him. He begged us to adopt him a thousand times.”

“What happened?” Steve asks softly.

“He accepted his fate,” Persephone answers. “When the future pains started, when he began to bleed at night around his mouth and lips, when he began to have nightmares of the future that taunted him every night… He stopped visiting us, coming into Hades and bribing the dog on the way in. He went elsewhere, instead – he went places where no one knew him, and he could pretend he was someone else, until he became someone else. He visited Olympus one day in spring time… He couldn’t have been more than six hundred. He was still a boy, not even on the cusp of manhood, and he was so stiff and formal. His illusion slipped, and I caught a glimpse of the marks on his mouth, and of that awful acid spatter at his eyes… It was awful, you know, when he decided… When he decided to give into destiny. He stopped weaving, he stopped painting. He used to garden, I used to teach him to… He let all the flowers die.” Persephone sighs, and a summer breeze catches the back of Steve’s neck, warm and gentle.

“He’s free now,” Steve says quietly. “Of destiny, I mean.”

“No, he isn’t,” Persephone murmurs, her eyes full of grief, and Steve feels like his chest has been doused with freezing water. “It’s just different now.”

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**August 4** th, 2012  
Mount Olympus **  
** **9:22AM**

“You oughtn’t have lied to him,” Plouton says quietly.

“I know,” Loki says.

“I oughtn’t have lied to you,” Plouton adds.  “How many times did you sit before me, and beg me to tell you, if I knew, why you fit so ill with Asgard?”

“I wouldn’t have believed you,” Loki offers. “If you’d told me.”

“If I told you the moon was a marble on a string, you would have believed me,” Plouton replies. “You would have believed anything, if I’d told it to you.”

“It’s too late now,” Loki says. “All will be well. I will be going to Jötunheimr, tomorrow.” He keeps his chin high where they walk together, and he doesn’t look at the elder god beside him, refuses to look at Plouton’s serious expression.

“You think they will execute you,” Plouton says, frankly.

“They will try. They cannot succeed, if I do not allow it.”

“Will you?” Loki heaves in a gasp, and he tries to keep himself from crying.

“No,” he promises. “No, I won’t.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is the first half of Epic III, from the musical Hadestown.

**August 4** th, 2012  
Mount Olympus **  
** **9:25AM**

“You wish to ask for advice?” Plouton asks quietly. His hands are loosely looped together over his belly, and Loki stands on his own, his lips pressed tightly together. Plouton is not a talkative man – for most of the year, he spends his time listening, rarely speaking. He listens to Persephone talk or sing; he listens to the subjects of Hades; he listens to his siblings speak on one matter or the next.

All that silence has made him perceptive.

Too perceptive.

“I wish to be convinced to do something else,” Loki mutters. He inhales slowly, tapping his fingers against his thighs, and he looks about at the garden. As ever, the trees grow high and healthy, and he recalls taking a cutting or two home when he was as yet a child, growing Olympian peaches on his balcony…

Those plants are all dead now – long dead.

“I’m not adept at convincing others,” Plouton murmurs, and he reaches out. Loki allows him to drag his fingers over Loki’s hair, the touch gentle despite Plouton’s large hands. “Loki… Don’t you want to go?”

“Of course I want to—” Loki cuts himself off, gritting his teeth together. “I have no idea how many of them were killed, in the incident with the Bifrost. I don’t know if King Laufey yet lives, even.”

“King Laufey lives,” Plouton says quietly, and a small fragment of Loki’s anxiety is soothed. A tiny part. “He does not know who you _are_. Does he know that you’re a Jötunn, even?” Loki crosses his arms tightly over his chest, and he sets his jaw. “You fear that they would reject you, but how could they do anything _less_ if you do not go?”

“You know what is to happen next,” Loki says, and he doesn’t mean for his tone to be as _accusative_ as it is. Plouton leans back, arching his eyebrows slightly and giving Loki a _cool_ stare, and Loki inhales.

“You have cast off the shackles of one destiny,” Plouton says in a measured tone. “It would be silly of you to panic over potential destinies to come. The worst they can do, Loki, is refuse you – and then you can simply go home, to Steven.”

“I feel that I go to three different men for advice a week,” Loki mutters. “My very mind is a nest of snakes.”

“It usually is,” Plouton says. “So why don’t you ask me about what you _truly_ wish to ask me of?” Loki turns to look at him, his jaw set, and Plouton smiles thinly. “I know you, boy.” Loki sighs, putting his head in his hands, and he sinks slowly down onto a stone.

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**August 4** th, 2012  
Mount Olympus **  
** **10:02AM**

“There he is,” Persephone murmurs, turning back to pat his shoulder, and Steve glances to Loki in the doorway. Loki looks distracted and anxious, and immediately, Steve gets to his feet, but Loki smiles when he sees him – if weakly. He moves across the room, closer, and Steve offers his glass. Gratefully, Loki takes a few gulps of the thick, blood-red wine – the stuff is _strong_ , even though it’s been watered down a great deal.

“You alright?” Steve asks, setting a hand gently on Loki’s hip. He can feel eyes on them, feel some of the gods watching what Steve is doing, and he feels some of the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, wondering if they’re thinking he’s overstepping his bounds as a _mortal_ …

“I’m fine. I asked him a question, and he wouldn’t give me an answer, which leads me to believe…” Loki trails off, bringing his fingers to his lips and dragging away a slight, purple stain. “It is not of mortal concern,” Loki says, loud enough for people to hear, and then adds, in an undertone, “I would tell you later.”

Steve nods his head, and Loki winds his arms around Steve’s neck. Steve lets out a short noise of surprise, gasping as he feels Loki’s lips drag over his neck, a flush coming to his cheeks and the back of his neck. He’s embarrassed, but he doesn’t push Loki away, and Loki asks, “Are _you_ alright?”

Oh, _right_. It’s a pretence. Yeah, Steve can work with that, embarrassment aside.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, and he makes a show of arching his back slightly, his eyes fluttering closed as Loki nips at the side of his neck. “I was just talking to a guy, uh… Aristaeus? Is he a god? He doesn’t look like a god.” That’s why Steve had been relatively comfortable speaking to him, though the guy had been eccentric to say the least. “He opened the conversation with, _Ah, a mortal!_ and sat down. Then he demanded how I felt about the bees dying.”

“What did you say?” Loki asks.

“I said I didn’t know the bees were dying, and he gave me a whole spiel. He doesn’t feel exactly the same as like… Persephone, or you.” Loki leans back suddenly, looking at Steve for a second, and studying Steve’s face, but it’s _true_. There’s a kind of particularity to Loki’s— Steve would call it an aura, maybe, if he was more into that kind of stuff. He’d just call it instinct, the stuff he feels when his head is turned away: Loki feels _huge_ compared to most of the people in this room, and Steve is relatively certain that if he closed his eyes he’d still be able to pick Loki out of the crowd. Loki is staring at him, and Steve asks, “So, is he?” Loki seems to realise himself, and brings his mouth to the lower part of Steve’s jaw.

“He’s a minor god,” Loki answers. “He’s a little bit… Odd. He’s Apollo’s second son. Or first one. I always get Asclepius and Aristaeus mixed up, if I’m entirely honest.” Steve glances across the room, over Loki’s shoulder, to Aristaeus, who is a shaggy, bearded man that smells thickly of honey. He wears a shawl of multicoloured wool despite the warm weather, and there are scars up to his bare mid-elbow and on his messily sandaled feet. He then turns his head to look at the guy Aristaeus had pointed out as his brother – a neat, orderly man in a light grey chiton, leaning heavily on his staff and speaking at length to a quartet of younger women – his daughters, Steve guesses.

“ _How_?” Steve asks. Loki laughs, drawing back.

“Their energy is similar, let’s say,” Loki says, and he takes Steve’s hands. “No one else spoke to you?”

“No, I sat next to Persephone, and she was talking to a girl that’s, uh, she’s not really wearing much?”

“Honestly, that describes many of the people here,” Loki points out, and Steve laughs.

“Yeah, but I guess, you know, ‘cause I was just sat with them, no one else really came over. Persephone gave Aristaeus the nod, though, so I figured he was fine. You’re, uh, you’re kinda popular, huh?”

“I’m powerful,” Loki says softly. “That’s not the same thing.” Steve laughs, and he gestures for Loki to come with him toward the wine. He lets Loki pour it, not trusting himself with the ridiculous size of the vessel.

“No, you’re _popular_ ,” Steve repeats, glancing around the room. On Asgard, people had looked at Loki with fear and disgust, with irritation, with uncertainty. Even the people that didn’t have an outright negative reaction had wrinkled their noses as they saw him pass, or their lips had twitched into momentary frowns. The Olympians _smile_ to see him, many of them nudging one another and pointing across the room, as if to say, _Look who’s here!_ “They actually seem to like you, believe it or not.”

“Well, they’re all very old,” Loki says disapprovingly. “They ought know better. Here.” Steve takes the cup, holding it to his belly, and Loki adds, “It’s good, that you’re drinking. They’ll put more— They’ll respect you more.”

“Thanks,” Steve mutters, bitterly, and when Loki looks at him with alarm, he shakes his head, putting his hand on Loki’s shoulder. “No, I’m not… It’s not your fault. You don’t think of me like that, do you? Like I’m _just a mortal_?”

“There’s an awareness of the difference between us,” Loki allows, but then he shrugs his shoulders. “But they… It’s different entirely. We, some of us Æsir and Vanir, we were _elevated_ to godhood. It started with Odin’s grandparents, and then we were woven into the tapestry of belief as each of us went down to Midgard, earning our place in their pantheon. That is why so many of the stories on Midgard differ from how things actually are: because we were added in strange orders, in odd contexts, piece by piece, and elevated as the stories travelled, either fast or slow. But the Olympians… Everybody you see here was _born_ into their godhood, their deification, even Zeus. To them, _belief_ isn’t the most important thing: instead, they respect bloodlines, and they respect title. Mortals, in their eyes, could never comprehend life as they see it – but the fact of the matter, in my view, is that anybody can be elevated to deity, under the right set of circumstances. A mortal need not have a deity for a parent: they need only be primed for magic, and to be in the right place at the right time.” Steve thinks about it, just for a second – _even a mortal_. He can just imagine Tony Stark accidentally stumbling into being a god on some weird planet, completely by accident… It’s the sort of stuff that happens to that guy all the time.

“What’s your favourite, of the ones you’re a part of?” Steve asks quietly, and Loki glances at him, evidently uncertain as to what he’s asking. “Of the, um, the pantheons. Loki aside, given that that’s complicated, now.”

“You ask such strange questions,” Loki murmurs, but he says it with such fondness that Steve is taken aback. A warmth shines in his eyes, gently burning, and then he says, “The Leians are my favourite, I suppose. To them, I am the youngest of a thousand brothers. The story goes that all of the eggs hatched, one-by-one, and each of the gods came forth. And one by one, they were given their talents. To Laskey, the eldest, went domain over the planet of Faro; to the second eldest, Brit, went the domain of the sun; and to the third eldest, to Eshk, went the domain of the stars in the sky. Many were given domains over the skies, or the waters, or the trees or birds or animals; others still were given domain over truth, and love, and justice, and liberty! One by one, the brothers lined up, and each of them received their domain from the great father and mother.

“But then, the next day, as the planet of Faro began to work its way beneath this new order, better than ever before, a final egg – the last egg – hatched! And forth came Aspling, the youngest, with shining gold skin. And the great father held him in his arms and wept, for there were no good things left to bestow upon him… But he was struck by Flos, deity of _inspiration_ , and so they gave Aspling domain over the telling of stories. That way, he could experience the strength of every one of his brothers, for he could weave tales of every one of them, and thus be the best of them – for what is a man’s deeds, if there is no one to tell of them?” Loki’s smile is soft and fond, and Steve watches him as he takes a slow sip of his wine.

“It must feel good,” Steve says. “To be the favourite for once.”

“It does,” Loki agrees.

“My son _said_ you’d brought a mortal with you,” says a low, lilting voice, and Steve turns. The man is tall and broad shouldered, muscle thick on his body, and his skin is a rich, deep black that shines with golden glitter. He has natural hair that forms a halo around his head, and his eyes are _golden_. “He’s lovely.”

“Thanks,” Steve says drly, and the guy’s lip twitches: immediately, Loki’s hand slips around Steve’s hip, squeezing _._ _This is no place for your wit_. “I’m Steve Rogers,” he says, bringing the glass up in a modest toast. The guy reaches out, looking to take Steve’s chin, but Loki catches his wrist before he can, and he interlinks their fingers to prevent him from getting further into Steve’s space.

The man _gasps_ , staring at the place where his hand touches Loki’s. “So cold,” he says softly.

“My true blood, now,” Loki says. “What see you in my future, Apollo?” Apollo’s beautiful face shifts, and it’s like the gold in his eyes is swirling, like glitter in a glass of water. His lips part, showing the gap in his front teeth, and his tongue touches against his lower lip.

“You’ll be a father, like you always wanted,” Apollo says softly. “In the end.” Loki frowns, leaning back slightly, and Steve can see the utter confusion on his face.

“I am a father,” Loki says. Apollo chuckles, and he draws his hand away, but not before admiring the black paint on Loki’s fingernails, tapping his thumb against Loki’s index finger. That’s the way the oracle works, Steve knows – he knows a lot of the stories of the oracle at Delphi, knows that the prophecies are always cryptic, always impossible to understand until after whatever happens has transpired.

“Do they have to be cryptic?” Steve asks quietly. Apollo looks at him, slowly. “The prophecies – is that like, one of the rules? Because it can’t be the magic itself that makes it that way, or it would be the same rules from one kind of divination to the next one.” Apollo laughs, and the sound is like distant music, impossibly beautiful and with an echoing quality.

“It isn’t a _rule_ , per se,” Apollo says softly. “But there is a sense of balance that must be maintained, a sense of order. Give me your hand.” Steve glances to Loki, who hesitates before marginally nodding his head, and Steve reaches out with his left hand, letting Apollo take it. Surprise shows in Apollo’s face, his eyes widening, and he stares down at Steve’s hand, flinching away for just a second before forcing himself to remain in place. His fingers are very warm against Steve’s own, hot enough that they’d _burn_ , if Apollo wanted them to. “But you understand balance – or you will. Loki will teach you.”

“I will?” Is this a prediction, or not? Steve can’t really tell. Apollo is deathly serious, but it seems like something’s changed in the way he’s looking at Steve, as if somehow Steve’s been raised a little in his estimations… What could he possibly do, that would make Apollo look at him with that kind of respect? Loki is even paler than usual, and his grip on Steve’s hip is tight.

“Yes… Balance. _Order_. Justice.” Apollo stares at Steve’s face as if he’s studying it, taking in the shape of his eyes and his mouth, his nose, his chin. He looks at Steve as if Steve is a puzzle he can’t figure out yet, as if there’s something hiding just under his skin that Apollo wants to dig out. “Were I to simply say outright what the future were to hold, definitively, it would alter that future. You would attempt to change it, or embrace it. Unless you are meant to _have_ the knowledge, to give it to you would damage destiny itself.”

“Do you have future pains?” Steve asks. Apollo smiles: he seems _impressed_ , and he gives Loki a look, his eyebrows raising, as if to say he approves.

“Do you?” Apollo asks., and Steve frowns. He draws his hand back, and Steve stares down at his own hand, seeing the golden glitter that sticks to the skin. “Why is it you always, uh, offer to tell a story for Dio, Loki, but you’ll never sing a song for me?”

“I’ll sing a song for you,” Loki says casually. Apollo watches him, as if waiting for a punchline: Loki keeps his expression completely neutral, staring Apollo down, and Apollo’s lips part open.

“You can’t _sing_ ,” he says, almost indignantly.

“Can’t I?” Loki says.

“You’ve never— Three thousand years, and I’ve never heard you sing!” Loki shrugs his shoulders.

“Things are different now,” he says. Apollo’s gaze lands on Steve.

“You’re telling me,” he murmurs, and then he gestures for Loki and Steve to follow him.

Loki makes to take his hand off Steve’s hip, but Steve’s hand claps down over it, keeping it in place, and he hears Loki’s quiet sigh of surprise. Apollo has drawn other people’s attention toward them, and people are now looking right at _Steve_ , their eyes roaming over his body instead of just looking at him and glancing away. Shifting slightly, Loki keeps his hand in place, and they move forward together. Like meat, like chattel – yeah, that’s how Steve feels right about now.

The thing about being Captain America, in the first instance, was that he was still the most powerful guy in the room. Here? He _definitely_ isn’t.

He slides easily into the seat beside Loki, and he watches as Apollo sets his hands flat, light pouring from his strong palms, and it reconstitutes itself as a lyre. The lyre is beautiful – carefully woven wood, painted gold, forms its body, and the strings seem like they’re made of pure light.

“Oh, _Apollo_ ,” chides Dionysus, and Steve feels one of his hands against his shoulder as he looks over the bench Steve is sitting on, looking at his brother. Dionysus’ hand is broad and calloused all over, worked hard working on grapevines. “It’s so _early_ – are you really going to sing for us already?”

“No,” Apollo says. “Loki is.” Steve glances up to Dionysus, whose eyes are wide with surprise, his wine-stained lips parted, and as Loki slides to sit beside Apollo, gently taking the lyre in his lap, he leans in.

“Is he serious?” Dionysus asks quietly. “Can he— Can Loki sing?”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

“He’s never sung before.”

“He has,” Steve says. “He’s good.” Dionysus hops over the bench and sits next to Steve, _frowning_ at him. His dark brows are furrowed, and he examines Steve with obvious curiosity, his hands loosely between his thighs.

“You, you’re… _Ooh_ , you’re something.” He gestures to Steve’s hand. “May I?” Steve hesitates, but then he offers it, and Dionysus takes it in his own, turning it over so that he can examine Steve’s palm. Smiling, he drags one finger up the length of Steve’s palm, through the centre. “You know what this line is called? You know palmistry?”

“No,” Steve says. Hasn’t he had enough of divination from Apollo? But— Dionysus isn’t a figure of divining, even. What does _he_ know about it?

“It’s common not to have a line here at all – this is the fate line. Fate _lines_ , in your case – you’ve got two.” He taps the base of the two lines that run through the centre of his palm, and then he _smiles_ , dazzlingly bright. He has tattoos all over the brawny flesh of his arms, depicting slowly shifting grape leaves that seem to move on his skin, like they’re being shifted by some invisible wind. “But you know something _really_ interesting?”

“What?”

“You’re growing a third one.” Steve stares down at his hand, and he looks at the two parallel creases in his palm, at the way they drag over the skin there. Frowning, he looks from his palm to Dionysus, who is grinning. “Just kidding,” he says sweetly, and he releases Steve’s hand. There’s something frozen in Dionysus’ deep eyes, just for a moment, and then it fades away, replaced by apparent warmth.

Loki is sitting with the lyre neatly upon his lap, allowing it to rest in toward his shoulder. When they’d been travelling a few weeks back, with Hel – on Rigel IV, maybe – Loki had played a harp one night, playing a long and mournful melody before giving the harp over to Hel. She’d played a wonderful tune, all interlocking melodies and harmonies…

The lyre is so much smaller. Loki’s slender fingers look good against the gold-painted wood and the fine, golden strings, and he looks… At ease. Steve smiles to see him so relaxed, even as people turn to look at him, scrutiny landing on his features. He can hear people murmuring in surprise, a few people expressing uncertainty that Loki even knows how to play, but then Loki’s hands are moving slow upon the strings, and music fills the air, sweet and slow and full of easy melody.

The circle of bare floor in front of Loki, around which the benches are arranged in a rough semi-circle, is suddenly bathed in light, and Steve’s mouth falls open as the illusion forms in the air. It’s beautiful, a garden of thick, luscious green, flowers blooming from bushes and trees and vines heavy with fruit, and Steve can even _smell_ it – smell the flowers on the air, smell the pollen that tickles his nose.

All eyes go to Loki, and he smiles as he begins to sing. His voice is low and soft, but there’s a richness to it, a _deepness_ that comes from low in his chest and rings with resonance throughout the room, and Steve can feel his breath catch in his throat.

“ _Heavy and hard is the heart of the king,_  
King of iron, king of steel,  
The heart of a king who loves everything  
Like the hammer loves the nail…”

There is a figure in the middle of the garden, tall and dark in colour –the garden is made up of magic-vibrant greens and bright colours, yellows and whites and pinks, but he is made in deep, dark grey, his himation brushing against the ground. Where it touches the illusion’s floor, it leaves a trail of dead grass, and Steve hears Dionysus sigh softly beside him, reaching out and running his fingers through the seiðr gathered on the air, and it sticks to his fingers.

 _“But the heart of a man is a simple one_  
Small and soft, flesh and blood  
And all that it loves is a woman  
A woman is all that it loves

 _And Hades is king of the scythe and the sword_  
He covers the world in the colour of rust  
He scrapes the sky and scars the earth  
And he comes down heavy and hard on us…”

The illusion-Hades is staring, his black eyes focused on a figure of Persephone that _blooms_ into being, golden-skinned and smiling where she cups flowers in her hands, and where she moves over the grass, in parody of Hades’ step, flowers bloom. It’s beautiful, the way the illusion forms, the vision of it swimming slightly before Steve’s vision, and he glances around the room. Zeus and Hera are standing together, Hera leaning against Zeus’ side as she watches the beautiful shift of the illusion on the air; Aristaeus and Asclepius stand together, their children standing about them and watching with them; Hermes has a sour expression on his face…

Apollo’s eyes are on Loki. He looks right past the illusion, and his gaze settles on Loki’s face, occasionally flitting down to his hands. It’s a strange focus, _unnaturally_ concentrated, and Steve feels the godliness in his stance and in the shape of his eyes, even from across the room.

The strong, thin line of Hades’ lips shifts, and they part in genuine awe.

“ _But even that hardest of hearts unhardened_  
Suddenly, when he saw her there  
Persephone in her mother’s garden  
The sun on her shoulders, the wind in her hair…”

The real Persephone is enchanted, standing just inches away from her magical double, and Steven can see how young Persephone is in the illusion – she looks like she’s into her mid to late twenties, her skin unlined, and she looks at the flowers she reaches for as if they’re the most precious things she’s ever seen.

“ _The smell of the flowers she held in her hand  
And the pollen that fell from her fingertips—”_

Steve’s mouth drops open at the way the pollen drips in golden dust from the dream-Persephone’s artful fingers, and he realises that Plouton has come inside. He stands in the doorway of the Pantheon Hall, his mouth ajar. There is such feeling in Loki’s voice, such warmth and sweet _love_ , and Steve can feel the pound of his heart in his chest, his mouth dry, to hear Loki sing with so much feeling.

“ _And suddenly Hades was only a man_  
With the taste of nectar upon his lips  
Singing la la la la la la la—”

Loki nods to Apollo, and he sings back the response, his voice lilting and ethereal, the most beautiful thing Steve’s ever heard, and Steve watches Apollo’s uncertain smile as he and Loki sing back and forth to one another, until they trail off into harmony, then silence.

Nobody claps.

Everyone stares at Loki as the illusion fades into seiðr-thick dust, and after a few seconds of the staring, Loki’s confident, easy smile falters. He shifts the lyre on his knee, a little anxiety creeping into his expression, and Steve can see the apple of his throat bob under the skin.

“Could you always play?” demands a young woman with deep brown eyes and a cascade of dark hair (“Hedone,” Loki explains later, “She’s a daughter of Eros – from her comes the concept of _hedonism.”_ ), and she is effortlessly beautiful, constellations of freckles forming on the golden brown of her skin. “Could you always play, just like that, and the— The illusions too?” Loki nods. “You monster,” she says. “You have deprived us all.” It is said so frankly that for a second, Steve can see Loki’s face fall even further, but then he sees the shift, the understanding, the way his lips quirk slow into a smile—

And the spell is broken.

Apollo is laughing as he drags Loki into his _lap_ , grabbing at his hip and cupping his jaw and pressing a kiss onto his chin; people are noticing that Plouton – after how long, how many millennia? – is _inside_ the Pantheon Hall, standing behind Persephone with his hands around her waist; people are laughing together, talking, and it’s more than _affection_ for Loki now. There’s something else. Respect, maybe, or something bigger than that, even.

Steve glances to Dionysus, who has tears in his eyes, and he puts his hand on Dionysus’ shoulder. Dionysus laughs shakily, and he reaches up, dabbing at his eyes with two broad, strong fingers, exhaling. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Dionysus asks him, and it isn’t a challenge, isn’t a declaration of something – Steve can’t quite get the rhythm of it, but the gods are _different_ with each other than they would be with mortals. They’re not just people, they’re forces of nature, all existing together at once… It’s terrifying. It’s wonderful.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees softly. “He is.”

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**August 4** th, 2012  
Mount Olympus **  
** **12:37PM**

Loki watches Steve eat, and he smiles, just slightly. His chin is rested on the backs of his hands, and he watches as Steve takes up a piece of bread packed with baked feta, oregano and red pepper, and eats it readily, listening intently to a story that Dionysus is telling, complete with ridiculous hand movements and gestures.

Steve is slightly out of it. Loki can see the slight defocus of his eyes, the way that he sways a little in his seat, and it isn’t from the wine: Steve’s been careful not to drink too much. No, no, it’s from being an mortal on Olympus, surrounded by ineffable energies, filled to the _brim_ with it…

From across the table, Apollo pushes a chalice into his hand, and at the sweet scent from within, Loki wrinkles his nose, and leans away from it.

“I don’t need it,” Loki mutters.

“What is it?” Steve asks, his eyes alight, and Loki almost laughs – he isn’t a greedy man, but he’s never eaten food like _this_ before, it seems, and he is taken away by Dionysus’ energy, given unnatural appetites by the swirl of energies around him, hyperbolic, emphatic, easily.

“It’s not for you,” Dionysus says firmly, taking the chalice and taking a long drink from it, but Steve is emboldened… There’s a slight distance in his eyes, and Loki is careful to keep an eye on it as Steve takes the chalice, bringing it down to the surface of the table and peering inside, at the golden liquid within. Loki watches those superhuman nostrils dilate as he inhales, taking in the scent, and then he sees the slight tilt of Steve’s head, sees him _concentrate_.

“What does it feel like?” Loki asks softly.

“It—” Dionysus starts, but Loki slaps a hand to his chest, stopping him from speaking.

“No, I asked _him_ ,” Loki says firmly, and he watches as Steve inhales the scent of the ambrosia once more, takes in the smell of the drink of the gods. It isn’t the same as the fruit of Iðunn’s garden, that which Loki was raised upon – this is an ancient secret of the Olympians, long-held and long-cultivated, that turns blood to ichor in one’s veins.

“It’s like… Sunshine, bottled up. It feels _warm_.”

“It’s cold,” Apollo says. “It doesn’t feel warm.”

“He means the energy,” Loki says softly. “The energy feels warm.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Loki meets the gaze of Apollo and Dionysus each: both of them have understanding in their eyes, a dreadful understanding, and Loki cheerfully ignores it. “Can I have some?” Dionysus’ expression changes, and he slowly shakes his head.

“No, pass it here—”

“No, no,” Apollo purrs, his hand alighting on the edge of Steve’s wrist. “Let him drink it, if he wants to.”

“Not yet,” Steve says. All three of them freeze, and for just a second, Steve’s face isn’t soft and warm and beautiful, but is a panel of hard lines and sharp planes; his blue eyes sharpen to a gunmetal grey; energy _thrums_ from him, full to the brim with order— And then he smiles, the illusion broken, and Loki can see he doesn’t remember the two words that have just tumbled from between his lips as he thoughtlessly passes the cup down the table, into the hands of Dice, who watches him for a moment before turning back to Astraea beside her.

“You should teach me some magic,” Steve says conversationally. “I’d like that.”

“Who says you’re capable?” Loki replies, but when Steve’s fingers reach for his own, Loki allows it, interlinking their fingers over the table. His hands are so warm, so much warmer than Loki’s, and Loki sighs softly as he feels the play of Steve’s thumb.

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**August 4** th, 2012  
Mount Olympus **  
** **2:59PM**

It isn’t like being _drunk_ exactly. Steve’s head swims, and he feels _invincible_ , but he hasn’t had that much to drink and he knows it. It’s more than that. His skin feels electrified, his every breath seeming to sing in his lungs, and he is hyperaware of the beat of his heart, the way his hair feels where it sprouts from his pores, of the _energy_ around him.

It makes him feel primed for anything, it makes him _emotional_ , and—

Maybe that’s the problem. That’s his downfall, he guesses.

Loki is laughing at a joke, slapping his own knee and leaning into the woman telling it, and Steve sees Hermes behind him. He hears the loud whinny in Loki’s ear, sudden and sharp and loud, and he sees the sick way that Loki _stiffens_ , sees the desperate trauma in his eyes, and he moves without even thinking about it. How could he do that? How could he _dare_? Steve doesn’t know if Hermes knows about Svaðilfari, but it’s damn certain Hermes knows about traumatic response, and Steve cannot help the rage inside him.

Hermes chokes when Steve lifts him by the throat, his hand _squeezing_ , and Hermes is so _small_ in comparison to Steve – Steve could crush his throat just like this, could squeeze hard enough that the flesh gives way and the windpipe cracks and the bone— He comes to himself all at once, and he drops Hermes like a stone. Hermes stumbles on the very air – he’s a Skywalker too, Steve can see – and he clutches at his own neck, looking at Steve with _rage_ burning in his eyes.

“How dare you—” Loki is between them in a heartbeat, and Hermes freezes where he had been clenching his hands into fists at his sides. There are so many eyes on them, and Steve can feel the burning ire of the gods on his back, knows he’s misstepped, knows he’s gone too far.

 _You’re a mortal_ , he’d said, _you’re not a person to them_ —

“I challenge any of you to touch him,” Loki says lowly, and his voice thrums with a dangerous power. “You think music is the only talent I have hidden from you?” Steve can feel Loki’s magic all over him, like a shield, like a cloak, feel it tingle hot and cold over his oversensitive skin. They’re all looking at him with such _hatred_ , and yet none of them steps forward. None of them dare.

“He _attacked_ me,” Hermes growls. The air is thick with a heavy, oppressive pressure as Loki steps forward, closer to him.

“In defence of me,” Loki murmurs softly. “Would you fight _me_ , Hermes? Would you dare?” His voice is so dangerous. It digs into Steve’s chest like ice, and Steve shivers, perversely taking a step closer instead of further away. “I am not like _you_ , brother: I am not small and weak, constrained to so simple a form. My cults stretch far and wide, and my believers are in the _billions_. I could crush you like an insect if I chose, Hermes. Don’t you realise that?” Loki’s hand is on Hermes’ cheek, the touch featherlight and leaving frost in the wake of his fingers, and Steve can see that Hermes is _shivering_ , that he is shaking with fear. “Don’t you realise that I could eat you whole?”

Steve stares as Loki grips at Hermes jaw, tighter now, and says, “I’m not the boy you could play with in youth… I’m so much more than that now. So much more dangerous.”

“Loki,” Steve says. “Don’t.” Loki laughs.

“You see? You see? This mortal _protects_ you… And you would scorn his gentleness.” Loki lets go of Hermes, and Hermes stumbles back from him. It’s like a switch is flipped: suddenly, Loki is smaller, and as godly as the others in the room, but not otherworldly so. The electric tension in the air fades into nothingness, and Steve’s phone rings.

Swallowing, he brings it to his ear.

 _“Rogers? We need you on the ground,”_ Fury says. “ _Can you bring Loki?”_ Steve glances to Loki, who shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I’m coming solo.” Loki doesn’t even let him say his goodbyes – that’s probably for the best. Steve lands in their apartment in Brooklyn, dropping heavily into a chair, and he shudders.

Fear, desperate and sudden, digs its way through his skin. But Loki—

Loki will be fine.

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 **August 4** th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York  
11:52PM

“How was it?” Steve asks. Loki is already lying back on the bed, and he smiles softly at Steve. There is wine stained on his lips, and there are spatters of paint on his neck and his jaw… Dionysus, Steve guesses. Him or Apollo.

“It was fine. Hermes avoided me, after you left. And after a few minutes of awkwardness, everyone decided it was easier to feign normality instead of to address all that had just occurred.” Steve frowns, just slightly.

“Just like Asgard, then?”

“Oh, in a thousand ways,” Loki confirms, and he gives a come-hither gesture. “To bed, please. If this is to be my last night with you for some weeks, I would enjoy it thoroughly.”

“Thoroughly, huh?” Steve asks, slowly. “I’m kinda beat, Loki.”

“Enjoyment is your heartbeat against my skin,” Loki says softly, full of feeling. “No sex required.” It makes Steve’s chest _burn_ , and he slowly wriggles out of his clothes before dropping into bed beside him.

When Steve wakes in the morning, before dawn even breaks, Loki is already gone.

He is gone for two weeks and one day.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note re: pronouns - Loki is pretty much just randomly assigning them to different Jotnar in his head. The Jotnar do not have even a remotely similar conception of "gender" as the AEsir and Midgardians, and most of their pronouns are actually constructed based on stuff like age and social class. I really don't want to awkwardly be shoving in completely different, made-up pronouns (or having to rely too heavily on my Jotunn conlang, which isn't really constructed at all), so we're just using a mix of he, she and they.

**Day 3, The Budding**  
Jötunheimr  
Fifth Hour

To the day on the planet P’jar, known throughout the Nine Realms as Jötunheimr, there are forty hours. In perfect symmetry, to the planet P’jar, there are forty days to each month, of which there are four. First Winter, Second Winter, Winter’s Wane… And the Budding.

This is the Jötunn new year. The days are long and bright and warm, and Loki stands on the shore of the Jut Sea, feeling the sun warm his skin. Turning on his heel, he looks out toward the sea, and in the distance he can see a few of the rocky, craggy islands that litter the Jut… On one of those islands, Loki raised his children with Angrboða.

On one of those islands, Angrboða died in the waves.

Inhaling slowly, Loki turns on his heels, and he begins to walk up the blue sands of Jötunheimr’s beaches.

A hunting party sees him, and they all freeze, watching him, their nets held loose at their sides, some of them holding spears. Loki holds up his hands, the palms flat, and he drops to his knees on the ground. “What are you doing so far from home, little Æsir?” asks a Jötunn with silver chains in their stresses of silken hair, and Loki says nothing, focusing on the rock before him. It is slightly rough beneath his knees, a little uncomfortable and hard, but he won’t be here long. They grab him by the hair and lift him clean off the ground: nearly twelve feet in height, they are tall indeed, and Loki says nothing, even now. His expression is impassive. “What are you doing here?” they demand, and Loki looks at them, slowly.

When he speaks, finally, frost forms on his lips, and he speaks the tongue of the Jötnar, although they had been using that of the Æsir: “Take me to the king.” The Jötunn’s eyes widen, and they turn their head to look at the hunting party, each of them displaying shock and surprise.

They slam their palm hard to the side of his head – not hard enough, not nearly hard enough, but he lets his head loll and his eyes drop closed, feigning unconsciousness although he is nowhere near. The Jötunn carries him on their back, slung over their shoulder like a goat to slaughter, and Loki hangs limp and still.

The trek into the Jötunn city is a long one. Jötnar are made to travel long distances, conserving energy and digesting it slowly over time, and Loki feels himself swing slightly as they move on. The Jötnar discuss him as they move, wondering what his name might be, wondering who he is. Perhaps he is a spy, one of them thinks, a Jötunn in disguise. Another call them ridiculous for even thinking such a thing.

Against the midback of the Jötunn that carries him, Loki hides his smile.

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 **Day 3, The Budding**  
Jötunheimr  
Eleventh Hour

The Jötunn drops him like a sack of flour, and Loki lands on his feet, making the Jötunn grunt – in vague irritation, if not in surprise. Standing up a little taller, he glances around the cavernous hall he is in. They are beneath the ground, and Loki looks toward the walls. They are broad and hewn in the ice themselves, creating beautiful pillars that rise up like the pipes of some great organ – Loki can see the shifts and divots in the rock, see the opening to the pipes. What…?

This is not where they landed, a year and a half ago, when they invaded Jötunheimr…

Loki’s fault. Isn’t everything, in the end?

Looking about the room, he sees no great throne. He sees benches upon benches, tables upon tables, each hewn from hard ice, and yet scattered with Jötnar, here and there. These are elders, it seems to Loki, with silver-blue strands marking their black hair, with eyes amidst the lines upon their faces.

“Not many would choose to speak our tongue,” says a voice behind him, and Loki remains facing away for a moment. The voice is deep and low, and he recognizes it – the voice of _Laufey_. Relief burns in Loki’s chest, relief, relief! He is not dead. Laufey yet lives! Loki is dressed in brown leather travelling clothes, and his hair is tied up in a tight bun behind his head: from behind, he would be unrecognisable. “And no Æsir would wear a piercing in his ear.”

“You’re right,” Loki says. The tongue of the Jötnar feels so natural to his tongue, and he reaches up to his lips, feeling the frost that forms upon them. And then he turns. Laufey’s quietly genial expression, imperious but polite, hardens into a snarl. Loki looks at him, looks at the cloth about his loins and the silver chains that hang from his neck… He leans heavily upon a spear, and Loki can see the mess of scars that cuts him at the very centre of his chest – Father had aimed Gungnir directly between the protection of the twin rib cages. “Don’t kill me.”

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” Laufey asks, stepping forward, and Loki stumbles back from him, ripping his blouse open. “What are you _doing_ , little Æs—” Loki lets the illusion bleed from his skin. He makes quick work of the jerkin, throwing it aside and letting it land flat upon the icy floor. Laufey is staring at him, his lips parted, his expression full of fury, and Loki shifts slightly. His trousers rip as his thighs grow thicker, his calves, and he wears a skirt of silver cloth not similar to those that the Jötnar wear. The fabric he vanishes in a swirl of seiðr, and when he looks down at his hands, he sees that they are shaking.

“You were right,” Loki repeats, and he looks at Laufey. Laufey’s gaze is shifting over his body, looking at the marks that mar his face, the semi-circular, symmetrical marks upon his chest, as if he is reading text on a page. “Æsir don’t wear piercings.”

“You would—” Laufey inhales, slowly, shakily, and he clenches his hands into fists. “Where did you find that skin?”

“When I was here, when my brother and I came to Jötunheimr, a Jötunn grasped at my arm…” Loki remembers the fear he had felt, the desperate, revolting horror of it all – it had been sickening, to think he had it all planned out, a little sojourn to Jötunheimr, enough to show Father that Thor wasn’t ready to be king, that his temper made him ill-fit for the purpose, and oh, how it had all gone wrong. Thor thrown down to Midgard; Loki revealed as a Jötunn; Loki mad, Loki deranged, Loki… “I asked my father. Demanded of him the truth. The truth, to start with, is that he is not my father, that he never was. He said that when he took the Casket of Ancient Winters from Jötunheimr, from the temple on the hill all those years ago, there was a child, an infant. Left there to die in the cold.”

Laufey’s expression is frozen. He looks at Loki with a strange hardness behind the red lens of his eyes, and Loki smiles, looking around the hall. He sees elders watching him, sees them look at him. Every eye in the room is fixated on Loki, and Loki sets his hands together, dragging his thumb slowly over the inside of his palm.

“But the thing is— I didn’t know this, then, I didn’t think of it, but a Jötunn child would not die in the cold. He found me during First Winter – even in the midst of Second Winter, majesty, no Jötunn child would die of _exposure_. But there is a Jötunn poetry book, of the knights of Jötunheimr. Many years ago, my wife would read it to our children—Yes, my wife, a Jötunn wife. Angrboða. She was an isolate, not a member of the city cabal.”

“I remember her,” Laufey says slowly. “She was bloodthirsty.”

“Always,” Loki says softly, fondly.

“She is dead?”

“Yes.”

“We never…”

“I laid her to rest,” Loki says quietly. “I’m a funeral priest, on another planet, a long way off. Our customs there are not so different to those of the Jötnar. The flesh is stripped from the bones, and the bones left to bleach in the sun… Instead of laid at the bottom of a sea crevasse. The flesh is boiled in acids instead of left for the animals to consume.” Laufey’s brow shifts, and he squints slightly where he looks at Loki. “The thing is… I don’t know _much_ of Jötunn culture, I know bits and pieces, but— A passage in that book speaks of the child of a Jötunn knight that slept its very first night on the hill beside the temple, knowing nothing would disturb its slumber.”

“It is an old custom,” says an elder, and Loki turns to look at her. She is tall and broad-shouldered, with three rings of silver through her lip on the right side, and six studs of steel shining along the lines of her left cheek. “We introduce a child to the eight winds, to the gods themselves, that they might love it as their own, resting on a precipice beside the temple that can be reached by no beast. Will you come forward, child? Come closer to me.”

“He is no Jötunn,” Laufey says. “This is a trick. He is a shapechanger, this monstrous child—”

“Loptr was a shapechanger too,” she says slowly. “Do you forget? Farbauti oft-complained of the way he shifted in her belly, taking form after form.” Who is Loptr? What matters he? And yet— A shapechanger, shifting in his mother’s belly…

“My sons did the same,” Loki says quietly. In this, his Jötunn form, Loki is taller, nearly eight feet in his height, but he is a runt compared to all these Jötnar about him, each of whom are so much larger. The shortest of them is eleven feet. Her palms are gentle where they cup his cheeks, and Loki tilts his head back slightly, feeling her fingers against his jaw. “How many died?”

“When?” she asks.

“When the Bifrost was destroyed… How many?”

There is a long pause.

“You feel grief?” Laufey asks quietly. “You feel regret?”

“Of course,” Loki whispers. “I was— I was half-mad. Desperate to prove to my father I was not the monster he believed me to be, I insisted if I could just _kill_ the monsters… But Jötnar aren’t monsters, I’m not— My children are Jötnar. My wife.” Loki closes his eyes, and he presses his lips loosely together. “How many?”

“You wielded the Casket of Ancient Winters, then,” Laufey says quietly. “You felt its power beneath your palms. You used it. How did it feel?” Loki frowns, and he opens his eyes, turning to look at the king, but the Jötunn woman’s hands grip tighter at his cheeks, holding them in place. She is examining his chest, at the lines that run down his neck, down toward his hips.

“It felt— Fine.”

“Fine?” Laufey repeats. Loki thinks of it, thinks of the way the Casket of Ancient Winters had felt between his palms, thinks of the way its power had coursed through his veins. How comfortable it had felt, how _natural_ , how easy… Such a natural power it had felt against his seiðr, that glorious, icy cold. And yet so much power had brimmed beneath its surface, so much that Loki knew not how to wield.

“I could not command its full power.”

“But you commanded some of it,” the woman says quietly. “Laufey…”

“He can’t be.”

“He is.” Loki breathes in, and then very shakily, he exhales.

“How many died?” he asks, softly. “When I wrought the Casket of Ancient Winters’ power down upon Jötunheimr… How many of you did I murder?”

“None,” the woman says softly. “We were each beneath the ground, and the Casket did naught but grow new glaciers where once stood the throne of the king. It is not a weapon, child – it is not made to destroy. It is made to create.” Loki inhales, slowly and shakily, and he stares down at his blue hands.

Very slowly, he turns his head, he looks at Laufey. “Who am I?” he asks, in the tiniest voice he has ever used, his voice but a whisper on the wind. As if in answer, the winds above them, on the planet outside, pick up their pace, and they begin to howl, distantly. The pipes around the hall, catching the air outside, begin to emit such haunting, lilting music that Loki is left in awe, his mouth open. It fills the air, the sound these ice-made pipes make, and it echoes hollow in his chest, makes him shiver. He smells fresh ice and salt water, smells the very wind itself, and the music fills him to the brim—

It is as if invisible hands are supporting him as he slowly falls to the floor.

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**Unknown**

Loki floats in the midst of nothingness. Inhaling sharply, he tries to sit up, but succeeds only in spinning in the blank space on every side. Steadying himself with a burst of seiðr, he Skywalks upon blank nothingness, and he looks about him.

Space, _void_ , on every side, but it isn’t black. That’s—

Bizarre.

It’s _white_ , brightest white, and—

“Prince Loptr,” says a voice, and he turns his head slowly. The figure before him is ensconced in light, and although Loki can look directly at it, he cannot make out any distinct features. He can feel the _power_ clinging to that form’s shape, however, and he knows it because he has just been surrounded by it.

Divinity.

“That is not my name,” Loki says. More figures step forward, and Loki looks between each of them – all composed of the same bright light, impossible to make out, to recognise as anything but vague individuals: eight of them. _We introduce a child to the eight winds, to the gods themselves, that they might love it as their own…_

“That is who you are,” the figure replies. “You do not know your own gods?”

“I _am_ my own god,” Loki replies. Another of the figures laughs, and Loki inhales, slowly. Their power is meagre, compared to his own in the scheme of things, even as Loki, and perhaps they know this, for they keep their distance. He can feel them, semi-ethereal and not quite on this plane…

“You are Prince Loptr,” says one of the figures, and he steps from the line. His form becomes a little bit more defined, the skin a deep, lurid purple. “You are the third child of Farbauti and Laufey, the third in line to the throne. Your parents thought you dead – they grieved for you.” Loki sets his jaw, and he inhales slowly, looking the figure firmly in the face.

The skin is violet, but the eyes are the same red as his own, the protective lens securely settled over the shine of his eyes, and like Loki he has many marks upon his skin, symmetrical. Loki reaches up, feeling the four circular lines that touch upon his own face, and sees the mimicked in the figure’s expression.

He smiles. “Yes, your facial markings mimic mine. Thus your name.”

“My name?”

“I am your namesake: I am Loptr, of Destiny.” Godly titles, divine titles, have power in them. All names have power – this is a fundamental truth of magic, and speaks to the obsession with names in the first place, for undoubtedly there are societies without names, without titles, but those societies _never_ possess even the barest spark of magic. Loki can feel the slight thrum of it, taste the title on his tongue.

 _Loptr of Destiny_.

“Loptr,” Loki says, and he tastes the name as it feels to him, tastes it as it ascribes to _him_ , blank and unused, a clean slate, a new page in a book abandoned before it could be started. Loptr flicks his hair to the side, and Loki watches its cloud of silken blackness on the air, with no chains, and he sees Loptr’s ear, which is curved and has a tip like a knife edge. There is a bar through its tip.

“Of Destiny,” he repeats softly. “You see?”

“I see,” Loki says.

“What made you want to pierce your ear, of all things? With a bar through the shell, of all places?” Loki thinks back, thinks back to the way that he had looked at himself in the mirror when first it had occurred to him, that he wished for a piercing, that he wanted… There are other piercings in Loptr’s face. Two rings through the left eyebrow, a loop through the right side of his nose, a ring that catches at his lower lip, and… A bar. Through the tongue. All of pure silver.

Moving forward, Loptr puts out his hands, his palms up. Loki does not grasp them, but instead obeys the unspoken instruction: he puts out his own hands, mimicking the other’s position. The Jötunn hand is pale and smooth, not as the hand of the Æsir: his fingertips are printless, and his palms have no lines.

“Destiny, to the Jötnar, is freedom,” Loptr says. “There are no laid-out plans for us. Destiny simply means… _Future_.”

“But it must be laid-out,” Loki says. “Such is the way of the universe. The magic knows where it flows: so too does time.” Loptr’s expression changes slightly, and Loki sees the strange smile on his face, distant and yet full to the brim with affection. He smiles at Loki as if he _knows_ him.

“Ah, Loki,” Loptr says softly. “Always do you see your experience, and think that you see the truth.” Reaching out, Loptr touches his face, and Loki hears the ethereal, otherworldly sound of the ice organs in the throne hall once more.

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 **Day 3, The Budding**  
**Jötunheimr**  
Sixth Hour

“Do you faint often, your highness?” asks the Jötunn elder as she touches Loki’s cheek. He is laid back upon a bench of ice, and slowly the world is coming into focus once more. Above him, he can still hear the organs of the Jötunn thronehall singing their quiet ice song, and he inhales slowly.

“Now and then,” he says, in a calm, mild tone. “What is your name?”

“Jorala,” she says, and she presses her thumb and forefinger to the flesh above and below Loki’s eye. Loki retracts the protective lens on the left side, letting her examine the grey-blue colour of his iris. “I delivered you.” Loki inhales.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Jorala murmurs. “See these marks…” She hovers her hands over Loki’s arms, and at his hips, where symmetrical lines are scored into the very flesh, tracing the lines of some veins. “These come from Farbauti. And these…” She circles over the curving lines that rest over his chest, and over his belly. “Of Laufey. Facial markings are distinct, but other markings are a combination of the sire and bearer.”

“And I was named for Loptr, because my facial markings mirror his,” Loki murmurs, and he sits up from the bed. Beside him, Jorala tilts her head slightly.

“What do you know of our gods?”

“Naught,” Loki says, and he glances up to the pipes of the organs. “You’re not going to execute you?”

“We don’t believe in execution,” Laufey says. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, and he looks down at Loki for a long few moments, his lips twisted into a line, his expression focused. They are in a different chamber, now, a small room, and Loki is laid on a comfortable bed of hard ice, to the edge of the cell. It is perfectly square, carved into the very ice, and Loki looks up at the two Jötnar either side of him.

“Tell me the name,” Loki says softly, “of the giant smith. He was near thirty feet tall, and he had—” Loki’s mouth is dry. “He had a great horse, a stallion. Svaðilfari.” Laufey stands in the doorway, and he tilts his chin back slightly, peering at Loki with uncertainty in his eyes.

“Why?” he asks.

“Does it matter?” Loki asks.

“What happened to him?” Laufey asks.

“He died. A long time ago, he died.” Laufey’s lip twitches into a ghost of a snarl, but then his expression changes, showing _pain_.

“He is Loptr, then?” Laufey demands, turning his head toward Jorala.

“He is Loptr,” Jorala says. Laufey turns his gaze on Loki, and disgust shows in his eyes, disgust and some distant agony.

“We have much to discuss, you and I,” Laufey says quietly. “We will walk together.”

“You would trust me?”

“Why, have you plans to assassinate me?”

“No.”

“Then we shall walk together.”

 **\-----** **❅**   **-** **✪**   **-** **❅**   **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅**   **-** **✪**   **-** **❅**   **\-----**

 **August 5** th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York  
10:43AM

“Where’s Loki?” Nat asks.

“Jötunheimr,” Steve answers.

“Oh,” Nat says. “That’s his homeworld, right?” Steve nods. He thinks about it, of Loki on Jötunheimr, thinks of the _anxiety_ that had rolled off him in waves… But he’d had to go. Steve can respect that, respect the desperate sense that he had to do something, that he had to connect with them, the people he came from. “Thor said he was adopted. I kinda got the impression that’s not how it went.”

Steve wishes Sam was here. Guy’s still out of action for the time being, and he should— He’ll visit him, later today, see where he’s laid up. What’s up with him. Sam’s a good guy, and Steve wants to see more of him, wants…

Christ knows.

“I don’t think so either,” Steve mutters. “I don’t know, I haven’t got the whole story out of him, about what happened.”

“You asked?” Steve inhales, slowly, and he shifts the position of the shield on his back. Knowingly, Nat leans back against the glass wall of the elevator, and she nods slightly. “Right,” she says. “He doesn’t take well to being asked questions.”

“No,” Steve admits. There’s a beat between them, and he says, “How’s Sam?”

“He’s—” Nat hesitates. Something shows in her eyes, but Steve can’t quite be sure what it is. Her and Sam have only just started this on and off thing, only just started hanging out at _all_ , but— He’s a good guy – Nat’s good too, even if she doesn’t think so. “Last mission, something went wrong. Badly wrong. He’s messed up about it.”

“I was gonna go see him, tonight,” Steve says. “But if I shouldn’t—”

“Nah,” Nat says. “You should.”

“And we should, uh, we should hang out. Us two.” Nat gives him a sidelong glance. “What? You hang out with Baron.”

“Barton’s Barton,” Nat says. “We have a rapport.” Steve grins.

“You telling me we don’t have a rapport?”

“Not like me and Barton.” Steve laughs, quietly, and he feels a little of the uncertainty in his chest fade a little, feels it dislodge and melt away. “He’ll be okay, you know,” Nat says. “I don’t know what— What the deal is there, but he can take care of himself.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, I know.” The lift comes to a stop in Nick’s office, and Steve gestures for Nat to step out before him, following after her.

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 **Day 3, The Budding**  
**Jötunheimr**  
Seventh Hour

They stand on a tall plateau, overlooking the great plains. The flat ice stretches on to the very horizon, and Loki drops to sit on the edge of the cliff, looking out over it all, seeing the way the ice reflects the slowly shifting sun – _Ifjit_. Like this, with the sun beginning its ascent further above the horizon, the skies are turned a deep violet, and it reflects off the shine of the ice.

“Tell me what happened,” Laufey says. It is an order, and it grates on Loki, but—

He is reminded of Angrboða. He is reminded of what first made him _love_ her. Not her looks, nor her great form, her broad arms and thighs, her height, her strength; not her skill on the battlefield, nor her capability as a huntress. It was the way she _spoke_ to Loki: frank and sharp, never with more meaning in her words than what was on the surface.

Such is the way of the Jötnar.

“I never knew I was a Jötunn,” Loki murmurs. “When my brother lead us here, to Jötunheimr, a Jötunn touched me, and my seiðr reacted… I did that as a child, you know. Most natural shapeshifters do: we match the textures we are exposed to, naturally attempt to mirror our surroundings, that which touches us. And my skin… _Changed_. When I touched the Casket of Ancient Winters, all was confirmed. My very biology shifted to the truth of the matter, for the seiðr my father had used to bind me in the Æsir form was cast to the four winds.” A moment’s pause. “The eight winds, I suppose.”

He is aware of the dreadful silence. He feels it upon his bare skin like a prickly heat, and he exhales softly.

“And then?” Laufey prompts.

“I used Odin to lure you into Asgard. I only thought…” Loki trails off. “My whole life, I was told that I was Thor’s equal, and yet… Thor was stronger than I, more handsome, more _manly_. Try as I might, I could never compare to him. They liked him better than I, favoured him, and I thought for the longest time that it must be some failing of _mine_ , but it wasn’t. It was natural, in the end. The Æsir think of Jötnar as savages, as monsters. How could they treat me equally to their son, when they scarcely believed I was a person myself?” Loki sighs, feeling guilt burst in his belly. “I know they don’t think that, not really. But I was mad when I discovered what… My entire life, I heard my brother, heard the palace guards, heard everybody speak of how eager they were to rid the universe of the scourge that is Jötunheimr. I _broke_. I can scarcely remember the hours in which I made those decisions, you know. I just remember my ragged throat, my tears, my confused desperation. It was like I scarcely inhabited my own body in those moments.

“Words cannot begin to describe,” Loki says softly, “the regret I feel. I was _mad_ , I— It’s difficult to describe. But I wasn’t tethered to reality, I could scarcely think. I was blinded by grief, by pain, by inexplicable terror, and somehow, in my addled mind, I thought that if I could only destroy Jötunheimr, that it would all stop. That I wouldn’t be one of you. That I would be _Loki_.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Laufey says.

“No,” Loki mumbles. “I suppose it doesn’t.” He looks back to Laufey, who is leaning upon his spear. Laufey’s expression is unreadable. “The Casket of Ancient Winters… Jorala said it was not meant for destruction. What does it do?”

“Everything,” Laufey says. “It was made from the magical well that cores the sun Ifjit, where seiðr brims eternal, where the gods themselves make their home. It unlocks our most sacred halls, our Hall of the Dead, our great library; it builds great cities, repairs all…” Laufey gestures to the flat plains that stretch out before them. “Three thousand years ago, we lived above the ice, on these very plains, but it makes ill sense to build here, for the sun will melt our makings here in summer, when comes this time of year: the Budding. We cannot hunt as once we did, either, cannot—”

“It’s a weapon,” Loki says. “He said that they took it from you because of its power.”

“A weapon?” Laufey laughs. The sound is like the grind of one glacier on another, harsh and high. “No. Not when kept on Jötunheimr.”

“But you didn’t keep it on Jötunheimr,” Loki says. “They took it from you on Midgard, did they not? When you attacked the Midgardians, froze them in their places?”

“We were angry,” Laufey says, helplessly.

“Angry? At what?”

“At Odin.”

“For—”

“Murdering my child.” Loki feels himself swallow, staring out over the violet-painted plains. “We tried sending missives. We tried sending _messengers_ to Asgard – messengers who were slaughtered where they stood. We tried everything. And so then we did something Odin could not ignore, could not throw aside: we threatened his position as a god. If we killed enough Midgardians, if we destroyed the power of his _believers_ …”

“That wasn’t your plan,” Loki says, sudden understanding coming to him, and he sees Laufey lean back slightly. Loki is on his feet in a moment, teetering on the very edge of the cliff. “No mortal would think of such a thing… This was the plan of your gods.”

“Loptr, come away from the edge,” Laufey says. “You’ll fall.”

“How did they come to you?” Loki asks softly. “In your dreams, perhaps? Have you soothsayers, here upon P’jar, who had visions?”

“Loptr, it is a steep drop, you will be dashed upon the ice.” He actually looks a little frightened, and Loki is uncomfortable with the emotion it evokes in his chest, the discomfort, the— To see this stranger _concerned_ , however awkward that concern may be…

“It’s a strange thing, to be a god,” Loki says, laughing, and he feels the wind thrum against his skin, dragging over him like so many fingers. “The power one feels, over _destiny_ , over the future.” The wind is rising. He can feel it rushing in his ears. “And imagine the jealousy a god might feel, commanding a planet like this one, and seeing it attacked by the god of some greater realm, easily thrown one way and that.” It’s a provocation. He intends it as one, and when the gust of wind catches him hard in the chest, throwing him off the edge, he is ready for it: he laughs loud, letting the wind carry his dark humour, and he leans on his back on the air itself.

The winds stop all at once, as quickly as the dropping of a coin.

Laufey is staring at Loki.

“I’m sorry,” Loki says, standing to his feet on the air, and he takes a step back onto the cliff. “I don’t mean to be—” He puts out his hands, mimicking the motion Loptr had made to him in the godly palace of Ifjit, and Laufey hesitates. Leaning the spear into the crook of his shoulder, however, he leans his weight into his strong side, and he puts his hands in Loki’s. They are huge compared to Loki’s own, and they are _gloriously_ cool to the touch. “I don’t mean to be callous. It must be distressing, to have thought me dead all those years, and find that I—”

Laufey is silent. He looks down at Loki with impassiveness shining behind the red lenses of his eyes, and then— The lenses slip back, revealing the whites of Laufey’s eyes. Laufey’s irises are lilac, and they seem so _soft_ , in comparison to the rest of his face.

“How can I believe it?” Laufey asks, quietly. He does not move to grip Loki’s hands, and instead their palms merely rest in mirror of each other, their fingers brushing one another’s wrists. “How can I believe you, when you say you are my son?”

“Don’t believe me,” Loki says. “Believe my namesake, and his fellows.” The winds _roar_ , making Laufey stumble, and Loki catches him before he can fall, keeping him standing. “See?”

“Laufey,” says a voice from the edge of the plateau, at the top of the ice-hewn stairway. A Jötunn stands in place there, his hair a cascade of black waves that comes down to his very _hip_ , his hands clasped loosely before him. He wears black muslin that hangs in wisps at his elbows, and from his hips, and he wears chains that shine as steel in the morning light. Loki can see the marks on his arms – marks like his own. “Jorala says—”

“This is he,” Laufey confirms quietly. “The eight winds themselves have said so.” Farbauti stares at Loki, his hands clutched loosely over his belly, his fingers brushing the dark blue skin there, as if remembering, as if recalling how Loki had felt in his womb, as if imagining this man, this _adult_ , as but a babe once more.

“We thought you dead,” Farbauti says, in a dread whisper.

“I’m sorry,” Loki says. He doesn’t know what else to say.

He needn’t say anything, in the end. Farbauti throws his arms around him, _crushing_ him with the tightness of the hug, and Loki feels himself relax, in silence.

So, this is Jötunheimr.

These are the parents of Loptr.

This is the land that bore him.

 **\-----** **❅**   **-** **✪**   **-** **❅**   **\- ⓁⓈ -** **❅**   **-** **✪**   **-** **❅**   **\-----**

 **August 5** th, 2012  
Brooklyn, New York  
1:35PM

Steve rubs a napkin over his mouth. The bagel had been fine, and he’s ready to just relax for another ten minutes before making it back to base to work on the papers he has to go through. It’s all bureaucratic nonsense – mission reports, stuff like that, but it’s bearable. They’ll be deployed to a mission in China in a few days, and it’s best to get this stuff out of the way.

“Steven,” says a voice, and Steve feels his heart jump in his chest.

“Loki—”

He stops short.

The Ancient-Loki doesn’t look out of place on a New York street. He wears a robe of deep burgundy, embroidered with a thousand silver-shining stars, and his hair is black with similar marks of silver, where the black is giving way to grey. Rings shine on his fingers and necklaces shift around his neck, and _yet_ , he seems like he belongs here.

Nobody even glances at him.

“Don’t call me that, please,” Steve says quietly. “Only he— Only he gets to call me that.” He kind of expects the Ancient-Loki to argue with him. He expects to hear him gripe and grumble, point out that he _is_ Loki, but no such complaint comes. Loki merely pauses for a moment, then gives him a small, apologetic smile, and a polite bow of his head.

“I wondered if we might have a talk,” the Ancient-Loki says delicately. “If you find yourself of a mood to. I will ensure you aren’t late to your meeting, of course.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” the Ancient-Loki says. “Nothing’s wrong. Loki is quite alright.” Steve inhales, and he sets his napkin onto his plate, tapping the edge of the metal café table.

“I have to go with you?”

“Not at all,” the Ancient-Loki says. It’s weird. He’s got so many wrinkles on his face, the crow’s feet, the _laughter_ lines – will Loki have laughter lines, one day?

 _If he lives that long_ , says a dark voice. _And if he does, you won’t be there to see it_.

“My apologies, Steve,” the Ancient-Loki says. “I didn’t mean to unsettle you – pray, forget I ever came here, I shan’t disturb you again.” He moves to turn away, but Steve stands from the table.

“No,” Steve says. “No, I’ll… We can talk. Take me where you took him: that’ll be fine.” The Ancient-Loki nods his head, and then he offers his arm. After a moment, Steve takes it, feeling awkwardly like a dance partner at some kinda debutante ball…

This is a bad idea. Or maybe it’s not.

Who’s to say?

Brooklyn fades out from underneath him, and he lets himself lean into he dimensional transitway.

**Author's Note:**

> I ADORE this series, and I am always for talking more about it, so totally feel free to HMU with feedback, questions and requests, either here in the comments, or [on my Tumblr.](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I really ummed and aahed over going for this as the next book in this series, I admit. The next Proper Plot book will be set in September/November 2013, dealing with the unfolding of the events in Thor: The Dark World, but I really wanted to give time to let Steve and Loki organically form a more genuine attachment and, more importantly for my self-indulgent ass, to do a FuckTon of world-building around the Nine Realms and the different cultures in the build-up toward the Dark Elves, as well as to Loki's Jotunn links! 
> 
> Thanks so, so much for reading! It means so much to me that people are enjoying this ridiculous series.


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